


Unravelling

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Darker Arya, A Darker Sandor, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anilingus, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Cunnilingus, Dark, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Female Ejaculation, For SanSan, Jealousy, Knifeplay, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Menstrual Sex, Mention of Previous Sexual Encounter, Minor Character Deaths, Nightmares, Obsession, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Sleepwalking, Smut, Somnophilia, Spanking, Stark Family Issues, Suspense, To Say The Absolute Least, Urination, erotic humiliation, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: Now home in Winterfell where her eldest brother rules as King in the North, Sansa Stark learns unsettling truths about the newest member of their household guard, Sandor Clegane, while simultaneously discovering a few about herself.*AU - Canon Divergence / Dark Fic (Read Tags and Notes)
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 232
Kudos: 235





	1. Kraken

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this an experiment.
> 
> First and foremost, let me start off by saying that there will be **no rape or major character deaths (SanSan)** in this fic. There will, however, be some non-con elements and dubious consent. If that’s not something you want to read, I totally understand and hope you find a SanSan story better suited to your tastes (I’m still working on _The Undate_ , too, which is a million times lighter than this! Sorry for the similar-ish titles - I was not willing to budge lol).
> 
> For those of you who are not turned off by that, please know: Sandor Clegane does some _questionable_ things in this story. Like, a lot of them. And some of those things are beyond questionable (keep an eye on the tags for specifics). I am aware that these actions will be considered OOC. Do I think he would do these things in GRRM’s world? Some, maybe, but certainly not all of them. Nevertheless, he’s gonna do them here. 😏 
> 
> This takes place in an AU where Robb Stark is King in the North, Stannis Baratheon is King of the Six Kingdoms, Theon Greyjoy never betrayed Robb and is heir to the Iron Islands, and Sandor Clegane serves in House Stark’s household guard after earning Robb’s trust by taking Sansa away from KL when Joffrey still sat on the Iron Throne. If more background is needed, I’ll be sure to cover it in the actual story. This is just the general setup so you know what’s going on!
> 
> Also, Sansa is fifteen going on sixteen at the beginning of this, hence the underage tag. 
> 
> And (this should go without saying) please know that I do not condone the _questionable_ things that you will read in this story. This is a work of fiction and kind of a crack fic, if I’m being honest. Rest assured, I’m an adult and I know that none of this is okay in real life. 🙂 
> 
> With all that being said, enjoy!
> 
> Inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9MZUeeg2Ug) amazing song (4:19 - 6:19 is *chef's kiss*)

She was lying on her back and in the throes of kissing the Stranger when a whisper woke her up from sleep.

“Wake up, Sansa,” said a familiar voice; it reminded her of home. “Wake up.”

The gasp she took stung, as if it were the first time her lungs had ever stretched to be filled with air. Her eyes opened a second after, blinking half a hundred times before the figure who stood above was no longer a blur.

“Robb?” Sansa’s throat was parched, and her voice hoarse from sleep. When she licked her lips, they tasted of salt. “What is it?”

Her eldest brother knelt down on the floor. Upon rolling over onto her side, she discovered that Robb’s eyes were more red than they were blue, and glistened in the light coming from the hearth. Sansa had only ever seen him cry once - the day Sandor Clegane returned her to him. 

The Hound had risked his life to free her from the clutches of Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. Had she stayed in King's Landing, she might very well be dead. That had been Cersei’s plan all along in the event that Stannis won the Battle of the Blackwater, which he did. So, with the assistance of Ser Ilyn Payne, Cersei had stripped Stannis Baratheon of the pleasure of killing her himself.

But that was a year ago. A full year had come and gone spent watching her brother carry out his duties as King in the North with a stern, stolid expression. And yet, there he was, kneeling before her, his auburn hair disheveled and eyes brimming with tears.

Every terrible thing she could conjure up came to the forefront of her mind. After the horrors she had witnessed in King’s Landing, her mind could conjure up quite a lot, the worst of which involved her family.

Sansa shot up from the bed, aghast. “Oh gods, is it Mother? Arya?”

Robb averted his eyes at once. When Sansa looked down, she discovered that her breasts were bare. All of her was. Goosebumps rose over her exposed skin. Sansa grabbed the furs that rested in her lap and pulled them up to her chin. That was when she saw it - her nightgown resting uselessly at the foot of her bed.

She had no explanation for that. None at all.

“No,” Robb finally answered, lifting his eyes once she was decent. “I received a raven shortly after you retired for the night. Mother and Arya are well and should arrive in two day’s time.”

Sansa leaned against the headboard, keeping the blanket snug against her breast. “Thank the gods,” she sighed. “Well, what is it, then?”

“Your betrothed,” said Robb. His voice was firm, just like a king’s should be, but there was just enough grief in his tone to make him sound as young as his eight-and-ten years. “Theon is dead.”

* * *

The clouds were grey and wispy, drifting like barges in the jet black sky.

“You heard His Grace, clean up this mess,” she heard Sandor Clegane rasp. His voice had a way of echoing off the castle's granite walls, especially in the dead of the night. When she and Robb turned the corner of the Great Keep and approached the East Gate, she saw him standing with his hands on his hips, his face twisted with contempt.

“Wait!” Robb called out, waving one hand while leading her across the yard with the other. “Leave him. My sister wishes to see.”

The Hound’s head snapped up; he stared at her the way he should have been staring at the mangled corpse laying at his feet, visibly bewildered.

Once they approached, he and two other guardsmen said in unison, “Your Grace". However, Sandor Clegane was the only one who followed it up with, “My princess.”

It always felt strange to be called a princess, but Robb _was_ a king. Sansa smiled up at him, then immediately looked away once she remembered the gravity of the situation. Somehow, for just an instant, she had forgotten.

“No sign of Grey Wind?” asked Robb.

The Hound’s grey eyes were slow to leave her face, like the clouds drifting above. “The Hunter’s Gate is open, but the beast is still out hunting with his brothers. They’re howling, though.”

It was not a lie. Not a second had passed before a trio of howls could be heard far off in the distance. Sansa shivered, suddenly aware of the cold that nipped at her face, and wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders. 

“Quickly Sansa,” the king urged her. "Say a prayer, if you wish. If what Jon says is true, we will need to burn him."

Her eyes fell and surveyed the gruesome sight. 

According to Robb's recount a moment ago, Theon had fallen from the crenelated battlements of the inner wall while in a drunken stupor. Or so he assumed - there had been no eye witnesses. He fell one hundred feet and landed on his side, his skull now caved in where it had hit the ground and sat in a pool of blood. His limbs resembled that of a rag doll, all twisted and bent in the most grotesque of ways.

Despite the gore, she knelt down. She had seen worse in King’s Landing - far worse. She saw worse in her dreams every night.

“Oh, Theon,” she whispered. Sansa reached out and brushed away the black hair that had fallen in front of his face. She could smell it from here, not the blood, but the beer. _A fatal accident,_ she thought. _One that could have been avoided had you not been so stupid, cocky, and vain._

She never had affection for Theon Greyjoy. At least, not affection of that sort. When Robb had told her the two were betrothed, despite her and their mother’s wishes, Sansa had slapped him so hard she cut his lip. Theon was like a brother to her. How was she supposed to wed her brother? It disgusted her to think about it, even then. She would have slapped Robb twice that day had Sandor Clegane not caught her wrist and stopped her.

She shook off the memory; it did not matter any longer. Her betrothed was dead, his face cold as ice and turning blue. 

“I’m sorry, Theon,” Sansa whispered, though she did not know what she was apologizing for. Perhaps she was hoping he would forgive her for turning down all of his unwanted advances. Or perhaps she was only apologizing for the overwhelming sense of relief she felt - she no longer needed to wed him. It was a terrible thought, as cruel as it was unwelcome, so she said it again. “Theon, I’m...sorry.”

When she stood up on two weak knees, a single tear fell down her cheek. The Hound stood just beside her and wiped it away with one thick finger.

Sansa shivered again. 

“Take my sister inside, Clegane,” the King in the North commanded. His eyes were fixed on the brother who did not share the same blood. “She has seen enough.”

Sandor bowed his head curtly and said, “At once, Your Grace.”

As Robb was giving a second command to the two nearby guards, Sansa felt stuck in place. Limbs as lifeless as Theon’s, she took another glance at the puddle of blood. The clouds above continued to drift and unveiled the moon, its reflection almost beautiful in the pool of deep red. It felt strange to find something ethereal about that moment. Sansa wondered how long she would have stood there and stared at the blood had Sandor Clegane not placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and turned her body around.

A gentle nudge helped her find her feet, and then Sansa returned to the Great Keep without another tear being shed.

“Your name day will be a dull affair now, little bird,” Sandor said softly inside the balmy corridor, breaking the tense silence that lingered between them. “Unless your brother finds someone else for you to wed in a week’s time.”

“I never wanted to wed Theon,” she blurted out, suddenly feeling desperate to make that known.

“But you would have had the lad not taken a dive from the battlements,” Sandor pointed out with a note of amusement in his tone. “Kraken must have mistaken the snow for water.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” Sansa reproached him with a sidelong glance. Once she would have been too meek to utter such a thing to Sandor Clegane, but not any longer. She had known him for two years now and found herself responsible for nipping his cynical quips in the bud. “Theon was like a brother to me.”

He laughed at that. “You were not like a sister to him. If you heard half the things he said about you, you would have pushed him yourself.”

“Pushed?” Sansa came to a sudden halt. “Are you implying that Theon was pushed?”

That stopped him in his tracks. 

The Hound turned around to face her. “Pushed, fell, who gives a shit, he’s dead.” All at once, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in close until her breasts were flush against his torso. “And you’re better off.” 

Sansa looked up at him and suddenly remembered her dream, though, some of the details had been lost. She could, however, recall how it felt when the Stranger pressed his lips to hers, how they moved, how they tasted, how oddly they were shaped… 

She traced Sandor Clegane’s lips with her eyes. The left side of them was missing, stolen away by fire. Sansa found herself wondering if his lips might feel like those that ravished her in her dream should she lift up onto her toes and kiss him.

The opportunity to satisfy that reckless curiosity was lost.

The Hound released her arm and pushed her forward, not ungently. “Back to your bedchamber, little bird. First light is hours away. Best sleep while you can.”

As Sansa ambled down the corridor, she could feel herself becoming wet between the thighs, a wetness that was not her moon blood. For every step that she took, her heart pounded in her chest five times. _Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump._ There was a question that she wanted to ask, but the words were lodged in her throat, leaving her unable to do anything besides step, count her rapid heartbeats, and ponder the thought. 

_How am I supposed to sleep,_ she wondered, _when it was you who killed him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, I know. Just need to get the ball rolling!


	2. Giant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting the amazing response I received on the first chapter. I truly did not know so many of y'all were down to get horny over a dark!Sandor with me. Well, let us continue! Thank you for all the sweet comments! You guys are the BEST. ♥
> 
> Enjoy!

Four hours ago, Theon Greyjoy was killed. Yet the sun rose that morning and the world carried on.

Sansa could still smell it in the air when exiting the Great Keep: the scent of scorched wood and burnt flesh. The stink filled her nostrils and lungs. And when she breathed out, it lingered and lingered.

Burning the dead was merely a precaution, one which Robb adamantly followed ever since their half-brother had sent word from the Wall claiming to have seen men rise from the dead. Several members of Robb’s personal guard had laughed at that, even their mother thought it was absurd (though she thought most things Jon Snow said were absurd), but the King in the North trusted their bastard brother more than anyone else. If Jon said it was true, then it was.

So, when a life was lost and duty called, the King in the North burned.

He insisted on doing it himself. Once the pyre was built and the body laid to rest, Robb would take a torch and keep vigil until the structure went up in flames. Sometimes he'd been there for hours, watching, pondering, musing. Sansa felt guilty for not being there last night, knowing how important Theon was to him, how important he should have been to her. But the guilt would have been worse - much, much worse - had Sansa stood beside him and watched Theon Greyjoy become fodder for the flames without confessing the truth.

The truth being that Sandor Clegane pushed him.

The Hound never did confess, nor did Sansa ever gain the courage to ask him why he had done it. Instead, he had seen her to her bedchamber and left, without another word, without another glance. And for four long hours, Sansa had tossed and turned and pleasured herself until first light.

Once seated on the dais inside the Great Hall to break her fast, Sansa grimaced at the plate of food before her, even at the apple cakes. Her appetite was so nonexistent that she could have had a plateful of lemon cakes in front of her and not touched a single one. And if that were not awful enough, the smell of blood sausage and eggs joined the smell of burned corpse inside her nostrils.

She covered her mouth and gagged.

Ill and sleep deprived, Sansa's head drooped several times. She set aside her etiquette for once and placed her elbows onto the table to prop her head up with her hands in an effort to stay awake. It was no good. The first time she fell over she bumped into Robb, the second time she bumped into Bran, and the third time she nearly fell face first onto the apple cakes.

Just as she started to doze off for the fourth time, Robb said, “Bran, where is Rickon?” 

“Probably with Sandor.”

Sansa perked up at once and then turned to face her younger brother. 

Bran’s face was drawn and sorrowful, as he mindlessly pushed his food around his plate. Much like her, Bran did not appear to have an appetite, though for a very different reason. He was grieving for Theon, whereas Sansa was dreading the possibility that Sandor might be caught.

Bran stabbed a poached egg with his fork, causing the yolk to spill. “Rickon said he wouldn’t break his fast unless Sandor took him out to the stables first.”

Robb set down his fork with a loud _bang_ ; he was sleep deprived and mourning, his temper becoming short. “A five year old ordering men about as if he is the one who wears the crown.” He took a long breath before rising from his seat. “I’ll go find him. I could use the air.”

In an effort not to appear as eager as she felt, Sansa slowly stood up beside him. “I’ll join you.”

Robb looked at her plate with eyes red and swollen, frowning. “You need to eat, Sansa.”

It was grossly hypocritical considering he had hardly touched the food on his own plate. Nevertheless, she took her brother’s arm and said, “I’ll eat afterward. I promise.”

The king yielded with a sigh and led her down the hall and through the wide oak and iron doors.

It was a beautiful morning, though the smell of death still lingered. The snow had been shoveled, the air was crisp and growing colder each day, and the clouds were thin enough to let in several radiant beams of sun.

 _Winter is coming,_ she thought. 

But the most beautiful part of it all was hearing Rickon’s breathless laughter as it rang through the yard. 

The sight near the stables relieved Sansa of all her worries, and somehow gave her all the energy she lacked that morning. It was refreshing. It was uplifting. It was pure.

While their youngest brother was sitting atop a chestnut filly, happier than she had ever seen him, Sandor Clegane walked beside him as he guided the young horse around the yard with a lead. He looked happy, too. _He_ did - Sandor Clegane. 

Sansa's heart threatened to burst at the sight.

What he was doing just then was nothing short of fatherly. Sansa wondered, should she ever wed, if the Hound would care for her own children.

Or _their_ own.

“Clegane is a good man.”

Robb’s unexpected remark brought her out of her fantasy. 

Sansa regarded him and was overcome with pity. “He is.”

“Father always said to never judge a man by the name he carries, nor the coat of arms he bears. Judge him by his actions and his actions alone. Yet-”

“-even then, know when to forgive,” Sansa recited wistfully, “for we are all...fallible.” 

The last word hung heavy in the air.

 _Can I forgive you for killing Theon?_ she wondered, watching her brother laugh so innocently as Sandor Clegane took him around the yard. _Perhaps you had a reason for it, a reason I’ve yet to learn._

When Rickon spotted them watching from beside the Great Hall, he waved one arm about animatedly, wearing the easy Tully smile. The Hound looked over in their direction, his gaze powerful, even from afar.

For a fleeting second, Sansa's heart came to a standstill.

_Can I even love you for it?_

Rickon surely would. Not only did her youngest sibling not care for Theon, but he had developed a genuine bond with Sandor since their arrival at Winterfell. In consequence, Shaggydog, Rickon’s direwolf, was fond of him, too, and he was seldom fond of anyone. It reminded her of the Hound’s bond with his mean-tempered stallion, Stranger. He had a way of gentling the rage inside misunderstood animals. Perhaps that was because he was misunderstood himself. 

As for Robb, he respected Sandor Clegane, but that was as far as their relationship went. Bran remained indifferent, though that was not surprising. He was indifferent to mostly everyone besides Summer, Mother, his siblings, and Theon. 

_Poor Theon._

After stabling the filly, Sandor carried Rickon over to the Great Hall on his shoulders, prompting Sansa's fantasy to return. 

“The little prince rides better than half the men in your cavalry,” said the Hound, as he set Rickon onto his feet.

Sansa giggled and smiled up at him, until Robb glanced over at her, forcing her to quickly look away.

“Come, Rickon,” Sansa said softly. Once he did, she combed her fingers as best as she could through his tangled auburn hair. “Look at your face. You’re red as a beet.”

“It was fun. More fun than breaking fast,” Rickon panted. “I want to ride with Sandor everyday.”

Sansa forced herself not to look up at the Hound and smiled. “That is very sweet, Rickon. But he can’t-”

“I can,” Sandor interrupted, giving her no choice but to lift her gaze. 

The sun was just behind him, making him appear more shadow than man. Sansa was once again reminded of her dream, the shadow that had kissed her. The Stranger. Her heart stood still once more. 

The hulking figure before her turned to Robb. “If Your Grace will allow it.”

After Robb finished yawning, he shrugged and said, “I don’t see why not.”

Rickon’s blue eyes sparkled. “Thank you! Thank you!”

“That is, _after_ you break your fast,” the king added, mussing up his hair just after Sansa had made it presentable. “Now, off you go. With Bran.”

Without another breathless word, Rickon scampered off inside the Great Hall with Shaggydog following close behind. 

“That was very kind of you,” Sansa told the Hound, feigning a calm composure. “Rickon can be a handful.”

“A handful, yet still more tame than Arya,” Robb interposed, rubbing his stubbled jaw. His beard was redder than the hair on his head, like fire. “And she’ll be here on the morrow, by the grace of the gods.”

That thrilled Sansa. And yet, it terrified her.

For a year, Arya had been presumed dead. Sometime after the execution of their father, Sansa’s only sister had managed to escape King’s Landing by traveling with a group of men making for the Wall. What happened in between then remained a mystery. It was not until Lord Beric Dondarrion had sent a raven to Winterfell claiming to have found her did they know she was alive and well. Their mother had left for the Riverlands the very next day with a retinue of northmen; she refused to wait for the group of outlaws named the Brotherhood Without Banners to return her last child to her. Two months had gone by since then. And now, on the morrow, they would be returning.

The Starks, save for their father, would be safe and home.

It would be so sweet to see her sister again. At least, until she learns about Theon’s death. Then that sweetness would turn into a bitter, sour thing, for no one was quite as prying and intrusive as Arya Stark. 

_No one._

_If Arya learns it was Sandor..._

“Well met, Young Wolf!” a loud, boisterous voice called out, startling her so badly that she clutched onto the Hound’s arm. His muscle tensed up underneath, then relaxed just as quickly. She would have never let go had Robb not given her a curious look. 

Sansa could feel the faintest vibrations in the soles of her boots as Smalljon Umber stomped towards them. A man with giant’s blood, or so the Umber’s liked to claim. He had become one of Robb’s closest friends, as well as a member of his personal guard, hence the reason for his stay in Winterfell. He had a thick, unruly dark brown beard that Sansa hated, and grey eyes that lacked the haunting quality of Sandor Clegane's. Despite Theon Greyjoy’s very recent death, the Smalljon appeared well-rested and wore a jovial grin. Sansa could not say she was surprised - Theon was not of the north. And northmen seldom mourned those they considered to be outsiders.

The giant came to a halt just beside Sandor, an inch or two taller, a stone or two heavier, and bumped into him every slightly. Despite the Hound having earned Robb’s respect and trust, she could not say the same about all the northmen. Many remained skeptical, and the Greatjon’s son was perhaps the most skeptical of them all.

“My princess,” Jon added. The Umber's were not known for their decorum, which made him taking her hand and kissing it that much more absurd. 

Sandor visibly bristled at that. Robb only shook his head and sighed.

_Because they, as well as I, know what was behind that gesture. With Theon dead and my sixteenth nameday days away, the race for my hand begins._

“Hello, my lord,” Sansa said kindly enough, before pulling her hand out of his.

“A fine morning,” he added, then regarded the Hound. “Wouldn't you agree, dog?"

Whether it was due to the lack of sleep, the lingering stench inside her nostrils, her empty stomach, or her intolerance of the slur that caused her to become defensive, Sansa could not say. All she knew was that the words would leave her mouth all the same. “Guard your tongue, my lord.”

All three men appeared nonplussed by that, even the Hound.

“Forgive my sister,” King Robb said firmly, sounding like their late lord father. “She forgets herself. Pray excuse us.” He took her arm before she could resist and pulled her away.

As they walked off, she heard the Smalljon snort like a bull and say, “Wolf blood makes for a fine woman, eh, _dog_?”

Sansa did not dare look back to observe his response.

“Are you well?” Robb asked, once they stood behind the grey stone structure of the Great Hall.

“Yes,” she managed calmly, though she would have sooner yelled it. “Why do you ask?”

“ _Why do I ask_?” He had never looked so confused. “What were you thinking speaking to Jon in such a manner?”

“What were _you_ thinking when you did not reprimand him for calling Sandor a dog?” she challenged him right back.

Robb waved a hand dismissively. “Clegane couldn't care less about what the northmen call him.”

“How do you know? That is what Joffrey used to call him, as well as those monsters who used to beat me. I trust you aspire to be a better king than Joffrey.”

That was all that needed to be said. It did not matter that Joffrey was dead; her brother’s hatred for him would never dull, no matter how many days, weeks, or months passed.

“Very well,” the king conceded. “I will speak with my men.” Robb took her arm and led her around the corner of the Great Hall. “Come, it’s time for you to break your fast. You _did_ promise.”

 _No,_ she thought. _I lied._

Upon returning to the front of the Great Hall, neither Sandor Clegane nor Jon Umber were anywhere to be found. And in the distance, direwolves began to howl.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


She retired early that evening and prayed to the old gods to forgive Sandor Clegane.

Sansa had not seen him since that morning, although she did hear Smalljon Umber's booming laugh at supper. Sandor had not killed him that morning like she had feared. However, his absence remained troubling. The wolves, all three of them, went out hunting again that night, which did nothing to settle her nerves; Sansa always felt safer in the presence of the direwolves, much as she did knowing the Hound was nearby.

Except he wasn't, nor were the wolves. And no matter how hard she had looked for him, Sandor Clegane could not be found.

Sometimes Winterfell felt as large as the North itself. It was never easy to find one person inside the thick granite walls. She would have asked someone, but found herself unable to come up with a good enough excuse as to why a princess would need to speak with a very specific member of the household guard in the middle of the day. Robb had already seen her grab Sandor's arm and defend him earlier that day. And though her brother could be fooled, he was certainly no lackwit and would soon put two and two together. Sansa must needs be careful. She must.

How would she ever be able to explain to her brother, the King in the North, that she was in love with the Hound?

Sansa tossed and turned in bed yet again, unable to sleep with the chatter and clangor coming from the yard. Frustrated and hot, Sansa kicked the furs off her legs, flipped her pillow over and then turned onto her side. That felt better, she supposed. She was cooler now and the castle was quieting, though there was still that incessant ringing coming from the smithy.

_If I knew Mikken was working so late in the night, I would have mentioned the latch on my door being broken._

She could not explain how that had happened. Then again, she did not have the energy to care in that moment and decided to take care of it first thing on the morrow. Just then, all she wanted to do was close her eyes and dream of the Stranger’s kiss.

Some time passed; Sansa was not certain how much. Once she had fallen into a half sleep, dreaming of howling wolves, she heard something click behind her, followed by what could only be a footstep. 

A heavy, heavy footstep.

Sansa rolled over at once. 

“Gods be good,” she gasped, sitting up and placing a hand on her breast. Her heart was beating frantically inside. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I received your message, princess," said Smalljon Umber, as he closed the door behind him. When he tried to lock it, he frowned. “Your latch is broken.”

Sansa looked around her bedchamber, nervous. “Message? What message?”

“My princess plays coy.” Umber wasted no time in kneeling beside her and cinching her waist with two strong hands. “Gods, what a rare beauty you are.”

“What are you doing?” Sansa struggled to free herself, but it was futile. She was too small, too tired, and he was too large, too powerful. Jon Umber almost reminded her of another - the man she had not seen since that morning. For an instant, she considered closing her eyes and pretending it was him. Had he not spoken, she might have very well done just that.

“I made the proposal for our betrothal," he informed her, his eyes growing dark as they studied her body. "The Young Wolf wishes to consult with your mother before making a decision."

The words sounded foreign to her. When she tried repeating them inside her head, they did not seem to be of the Common Tongue. 

Sansa pushed on his chest, unable to nudge him back a single inch. “Unhand me, you brute!”

He laughed throatily, as if it were a game. “Unhand you? Or kiss you, like you said?”

_Like I said?_

Nothing was making any sense. Not the broken latch on her door, nor the man who came here seeking a promised kiss. When he leaned in closer, Sansa brought her hand up and slapped him with all her strength. Her palm stung afterward, as if her skin were being poked with a thousand tiny needles. 

Only then did he stop. 

Umber’s eyes were clouded with something that looked like fear. “You never sent him...bloody-”

The curse was cut short by the sound of the door swinging open and slamming against the stone. 

Sansa never saw him enter, though she knew who it was. Somehow, at the onset of the brawl, she had been pushed over with her face buried in a pillow. It did not matter that she could not see, for her mind used the many sounds to create an image of what happening.

Two men fighting to the death. 

She heard grunting and choked cursing, steel slicing against flesh, and then a sound that could only be a bone snapping in half. Frozen, Sansa kept her face nestled against the pillow and tried to remember a prayer, but her mind could not remember a single word, let alone a verse. 

More brawling, more cursing, more groaning, as the two men fought.

Sansa tried again.

_Gentle...Mother...font...of..._

She could not remember what came next, but it did not matter. A second later, the sound of a body hitting the floor made her heart skip over its rhythm. 

Only then did Sansa find the strength to cover her ears and scream.

A iron hand wrapped fully around her wrist and turned her over.

The Hound was hovering over her, sweating and with a blood dripping from brow and landing on her cheek. When the blood rolled down towards her ear, it felt like she was shedding warm tears. Sandor lifted her wrist until her hand was cupping his face - the scarred side. His breath came fast and heavy, as heavy as her heart was beating.

He swallowed. “Did he hurt you?”

Sansa brushed her fingers along his marred skin, eliciting a guttural moan. Wordless, she shook her head and wondered if this was only a dream. Sansa closed her eyes and pursed her lips to kiss him.

The next thing she knew, the Hound was grabbing the front of her nightgown and ripping it down the middle.

“S-Sandor,” she tried to scream out, but it came out a whisper, a breath, a moan. Because the truth of it was, she loved it. 

Sansa wanted it. Sansa craved it. 

And then, when the Hound tore her smallclothes at the seams, she loved it and wanted it and craved it all the more. Her back arched at the sensation of her nipples stiffening, and then she whimpered once she felt a waft of air kiss her lower lips. A low, rumbling sound came from the man above her, and Sansa relished in whatever it was that Sandor Clegane was doing to her. No matter his intentions, she did not want him to stop. Her legs had a mind of their own and spread apart, just as a wet, calloused hand mapped the inside of her thigh. 

_Yes,_ she thought, wishing the word of encouragement would drip off her tongue. _Don’t stop. Please. Oh, don’t stop._

But before that hand could touch her where she was wet and hot and throbbing, it stopped and pulled away.

The Hound yanked her up to sitting and then tousled her hair with both hands, leaving her dizzy. After brushing her hair out of her face, Sansa discovered the lifeless body laying face down on the floor.

Somehow, she had forgotten that Sandor killed another man.

Smalljon Umber did not look as big now that he was dead on the stone. Although, the pool of blood spreading out underneath him was thrice the size of that she had witnessed the night before. She could not tell from the angle, but her best guess was that Sandor Clegane had cut his throat. Sansa had seen that happen enough times inside the throne room of the Red Keep.

As she stared, she was curiously unafraid. Or perhaps her brain could not process it. Perhaps it didn't want to.

Beside her, Sandor was snatching the furs and pillows off the bed and tossing them onto the floor. That was bemusing. It was deadly quiet inside her bedchamber, save for their breathing. That was when it occurred to her that the clangor of hammers coming from the smithy had stopped. 

As soon as she heard Robb’s voice shouting a command down the corridor, Sandor crouched down beside Smalljon Umber and slipped an iron key into the dead lord’s pocket.

It made sense to her then. All of it. The Hound was staging a scene, as if it were a mummer’s show. 

_He is staging the scene of my rape._

When Robb ran in beside Winterfell’s blacksmith, Mikken, his face was drained of color. 

“Gods be good,” he gasped, staring at her and then at Clegane and Umber, then at her again.

Sansa had forgotten about her state of undress, wearing nothing but a nightgown that had been torn open to expose the front half of her body. When she looked down and covered herself with her arms, there was blood on the inside of her thigh from where Sandor had touched her. She could not say whose blood it was. The Hound picked up the furs he had only recently thrown onto the floor and tossed them to her. 

As she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, Robb pushed off the door frame and took five staggering steps towards her. He collapsed onto the bed and embraced her tightly to the point it was overbearing. His breathing was shaky and uneven when he said, “What...what happened?”

The Hound cleared his throat. “Umber came to take what he was refused, Your Grace - the princess' hand.”

“More than just her hand,” Mikken observed, scratching his grey beard. 

“I never refused him. I-” Robb was stammering, his bronze and iron crown crooked atop his head. His eyes shifted back and forth as he scanned the bedchamber, pausing once they found the ruin of fabric on the floor that was once her smallclothes. “Gods be good,” he exhaled again. “Jon...Umber...mine own personal guard…”

“...tried to rape your sister,” Clegane lied, shameless. So, so shameless. "I heard the princess crying and kicked at the door until the latch broke. Umber was a second away from pulling out his cock."

Her lips parted open, unbelieving.

_He used to be so honest. He used to never lie. And now..._

The Hound might as well have not been there, for Robb hardly paid any attention to him at all. Instead, eyes as blue as hers met her gaze. He was in shock, completely aghast; he did not know what to believe. The Smalljon had become as close to him as Theon. A friend, a brother, through and through. No doubt it seemed uncharacteristic of Jon to take her by force - that’s because it was. He would have never done that. Not ever.

“Sansa,” Robb breathed, his eyes wide as saucers.

He wanted to hear her account of what happened, she knew. But what was she supposed to say?

 _Jon came here to kiss me,_ she would have confessed, but the words would not come. _And he only came here to kiss me because I told him to._

_Except I didn’t._

Her eyes found Sandor Clegane.

_You did._

“Tell me,” Robb demanded, though it sounded far more like a plea than the command of a king. He hated ruling, that was plain enough to see. Honorable as he was, he hated what came with the crown, the decisions he must needs make, the choices. Sansa need not ask to know what he was contemplating in that very moment.

_Does he trust the Hound, or does he execute him?_

Killing a lord in cold blood was a heinous crime, one which would not allow Sandor Clegane to be given the opportunity to take the black should he be found guilty. Instead, he would be beheaded on an ironwood stump, and it would be Robb who carried out the sentence.

Sansa would die before that happened.

She fumbled for words. “I-it all happened so fast.” That was true enough, but what followed it was not. Not in the slightest. It was a lie, a brazen one, yet necessary. “Were it not for Sandor, I...I’d no longer be a maiden.”

The Hound used to tell her how poor of a liar she was. Yet in that instant, when she regarded him, as if seeking his approval, she knew his opinion had changed. Though his mouth was firm and unsmiling, his eyes told her something else. Those two grey eyes were fixed on her and flashed with what she interpreted as blazing passion.

It was not only a wetness developing between her thighs, but a deep, aching throb that seemed to worsen the longer she stared at him. 

Robb exhaled with tremendous force, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time she had been concocting the lie. “Mikken, find Maester Luwin at once. Sansa, you will sleep in Arya’s chambers for tonight. And Clegane…” he trailed off, studying the aurochs-sized corpse on the floor.

The anticipation drove her wild. 

_Will he send him away now? Is he suspicious? Will he behead him after all? Will he-_

“I want you posted outside my sister’s door,” Robb finally continued, turning away from yet another dead friend. “Every night. Every single night.”

With Mikken gone and Robb looking away as he helped her onto her feet, Sansa peered over her brother's shoulder and watched as the faintest, most subtle, most menacing smile dangled on the corner of Sandor Clegane’s lips.

Sansa could not bring herself to look away until Robb took her arm and led her towards the corridor.

She felt flushed afterward, her breath quick and shallow. As she stepped barefoot towards the gaping door, her eyes fell on the lifeless lord's body. Robb would never learn the truth of that - nobody would. The king must never know it was one clever ploy and one rash lie that took away yet another man he thought of as a brother.

Robb must never know that, together, she and Sandor killed a giant.


	3. Maiden I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one...needed to be split into two. Anyway, check out [this](https://www.deviantart.com/bubug/art/UnKiss-573603689) amazing piece done by none other than Bubug. Along with the song ["Unravelling"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9MZUeeg2Ug) by Harry Escott, this image is my muse for this fic. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“A maiden, Your Grace. The princess remains a maiden.”

As soon as the maester’s two cold, wrinkled fingers were removed from her body, Sansa drew up her knees and shrouded her legs with her nightgown. 

_Humiliating,_ she thought, glancing over at the King in the North who stood in the doorway with his back turned. 

_Disgraceful,_ Sansa wanted to scream, as she stared at his gleaming crown and suppressed the urge to cry.

Her eyes shifted from Robb to where the much bigger man stood just beside him. They were speaking to one another in hushed tones, low enough to leave her none the wiser as to what was being said. The Hound’s dark tunic had a tear in the back near his shoulder, deep enough for Sansa to catch a glimpse of his skin. And his muscles. There was blood, too, from where Jon Umber had slashed him with a dagger minutes ago. 

_Shameful_ , thought Sansa. _All of us._

Maester Luwin arose from the bed and gave her an apologetic look. Sansa could not be angry at him, no matter how humiliated she felt; it was not his fault. The maester was only doing the king’s orders. He was sworn to House Stark, tireless and ever-faithful. It was only when the small grey man walked over to the basin of water to cleanse his hands did Sansa finally blink. Tears fell on either side, burning like embers as they streaked her cheeks.

 _You didn’t believe me_ , she almost uttered, watching her brother turn around to give the maester a single nod before bidding her good night and departing down the corridor. The other man in the doorway stayed, never turning around. And he would stay there for the remainder of the night.

Every night.

Sansa had told the King in the North that she was a maiden, that the Smalljon had never gotten that far (and conveniently leaving out the part that he never intended to), yet he had Maester Luwin examine her all the same. There had been blood on the inside of her thigh, and Robb was adamant on throwing out the possibility that her maidenhead was no longer intact, as if she would have forgotten being raped.

But that was not the reason at all, Sansa knew. Robb would never admit it, but the examination was not a measure to ensure that Umber had not dishonored her - he knew he hadn’t. Rather, it was a means to find out if _anyone_ had dishonored her. And if she had to guess, Robb Stark had one man in particular in mind - the man he had just entrusted with shielding her each and every night.

Sandor Clegane.

That _was_ it; her brother need not say it. In the short span of leaving her bedchamber and entering Arya’s, a seedling of suspicion had been planted in Robb’s mind. When he had given Maester Luwin the order without her consent, Sansa had tried to slap him, to no avail. Clegane had seized her wrist before she could strike and said, “Do as you're bid, princess.”

 _You want to know, too,_ she had thought. Sansa had seen it in his eyes, the dark, unwavering, curiosity. Could he think she might have laid with one of the visiting knights or lords when he was not looking? What was compelling him to do the things he was doing? Did he truly only mean to protect her? Did he only want to keep her safe from arrogant, unruly men? Or did he only want her for himself?

It was difficult for her to believe such a thing. Sandor Clegane was a man grown, fierce and dangerous, although he was a bit gentler when it came to her. Yet as strange as it might seem, the evidence was staggering. Sansa recalled the way he had touched her a moment ago inside her bedchamber, the growls that had escaped him once her smallclothes no longer covered her body. The memory made her sex throb again, so much so it was becoming uncomfortable. Even a maiden would know what a touch like that meant. Even a maiden would know the sound of lust. 

He _did_ want her, she realized. It was why he killed Theon, why he framed the Greatjon’s heir and eldest son. And Sansa knew should she ever lay with a man, Sandor Clegane would find out who and kill him.

But that would not be necessary. She had been examined and declared a maiden, ripping out the seedling of suspicion inside Robb’s head, and all it cost was their bond as brother and sister.

Sansa didn’t know if she could ever forgive him for that. Suddenly, harboring the identity of the killer of Theon Greyjoy and Jon Umber no longer made her feel ill with guilt. She was glad he didn’t know. He deserved to believe the lie. And never would she tell him the truth.

Not ever.

Once Maester Luwin finished gathering his things, he bid her a good night and then scurried out the bedchamber. Only then did the Hound turn around, his face bruising and bleeding. She could hear men down the corridor grunting as they removed the massive corpse of Smalljon Umber. There were ten of them - maybe even more.

“Pleasant dreams, princess,” Sandor Clegane said, his voice low and raspy. He might have said more had there not been a group of men so close by. Was that a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips? She couldn’t say, her vision still blurred from the tears. Without uttering another word, the Hound shut the door.

Sansa jumped from the bed at once.

Her hands shook as they found the latch. The metal was cold against her skin, the fire in the hearth having only recently been lit. Once locked, she stepped away slowly from the door, her eyes fixed on the handle. One bare foot stepped back and then the other, again and again. Sansa gradually made her way over to the bed, all the while praying the handle would not turn. 

It was not that she was afraid of him, or perhaps there was a little of that, too. All Sansa knew for certain was that she was not ready to speak to him - not yet. She was not ready to acknowledge what she had done: standing back and listening as an innocent man was killed and going along with the mummer’s show when questioned.

But above all else, Sansa was not ready to reveal that she was protecting him out of love. 

She climbed into her sister’s bed, its sheets freshly washed in preparation for Arya’s arrival on the morrow. _Mother and Arya….what will they say when they learn of the deaths?_

If Sansa continued to think about that, she’d never find sleep. 

With her eyes now closed, her ears were sensitive to the sounds around her. Robb was giving a stern command in the yard, the grunting in the corridor grew faint and distant as Umber’s corpse was being carried off, and then her eyes shot wide open upon hearing one of the northmen say, “Watch your back, dog!”

 _No,_ she thought, _you watch yours._

Just as soon as those sounds faded, another emerged: three knocks on the door, each softer than the last.

_Knock...knock...knock._

Gooseprickles rose on her skin. Sansa rolled over onto her other side and stared at the oaken door.

A second sequence came, slower than the first. 

_Knock…...knock…...knock._

That throbbing sensation between her thighs returned and then worsened when the eerie melody came a third time.

_Knock……...knock……...knock._

Sansa stared at the handle and waited for it to turn, but it never did. All that came were the spine-chilling knocks. No words. No attempts at coming in. Just one large hand softly tapping against the oak. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

There was an impatience in those knocks; Sansa could feel it in her core. She could feel it _there._ The gentlest of vibrations somehow making their way to where she felt herself becoming wet, where she throbbed and throbbed.

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Sansa sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head, then laid back down.

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Her nipples grew stiff, two little pink pearls perched atop her breasts. She touched them both, stifling a whimper when the pleasure of doing so made her sex throb deeper and harder. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Sansa opened her legs and lowered one hand until two of her fingers found another little pink pearl, the bud that became firm with her arousal. Her maidenhair was soft in her palm, a shade darker than the hair on her head. She discovered the area surrounding her entrance was still slick from where the maester had placed a small amount of oil before examining her. 

As her fingers glided over the glossy skin, she struggled to suppress her moan.

Sansa ran one finger up and down her slit, shivering at the touch. Though she was not innocent when it came to occasionally pleasuring herself, this time felt different. This time, _he_ was there with her, his bloodied knuckles tapping against the door. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Her fingers circled over her firm bud, slowly at first, and then faster each time the Hound made his presence known. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Sansa bit her lip to keep from moaning, rubbing herself with the one hand while the other groped her breasts. She closed her eyes and remembered the way Sandor Clegane had looked when Theon laid dead at his feet, how his jaw had clenched when he grabbed her and told her she was better off, how he had smirked at her ever so slightly when Sansa lied for him. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

A soft moan fell from her lips, but that did not stop her. Those three soft taps were as rich and resonant as beating drums against her bud. She stretched out her legs, greedy to find her peak, and pinched her nipple between two fingers. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

She found herself grinding her hips back and forth, not even thinking about it, only doing what felt natural as her pleasure progressed.

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Her toes pointed and touched the fur blanket that was now spilling off the edge of the bed. Sansa tried to imagine it was not her fingers rubbing her sex, but the ones belonging to the hand knocking at the door. 

_Knock………...knock………...knock._

Sansa no longer attempted to hold back her moan, and let the room fill with her soft, lingering cry; she wanted him to hear. Her climax was coming, she could feel it, and continued to fantasize about Sandor Clegane touching her, hovering over her, grazing the inside of her thigh and growling. Sansa tried to imagine what his moans might sound like, as he rubbed her cunt with a bloody hand after killing a man. 

“Oh, Sandor! Sandor!” she whimpered, arching her neck until her head was pressed firmly against the pillow.

It was not a knock that came at the door, but the sound of its handle turning. 

It frightened her, so much so that her pleasure reached its apex. And then, Sansa was falling, unable to hold onto anything aside from the fantasies of Sandor Clegane, moaning and writhing atop her little sister’s clean sheets as she succumbed to her release. 

It was not a knock that came at the door, nor the turning of a handle, but one thunderous _bang_.

The hand that had become languid on her sex shot up to cover her mouth.

“Open the door!” the Hound rasped through the oak. Though his words were not very loud, presumably spoken through his teeth, they carried a bite all the same. “Open the bloody door!”

She imagined spittle spraying from his lips as he said it, his mouth twisting into a snarl like a rabid, frothing dog. 

Her heart was beating furiously, a drum of its own. The hand covering her mouth was wet and smelled of oil and her sex; it was a pleasant smell. She made to lick it, then stopped herself at once. _What is wrong with me?_ Sansa thought suddenly. Breathless from pleasure and fear, Sansa picked up the furs that had fallen onto the floor and covered her nakedness. _What have I done? What was I thinking?_

_I’m a maiden,_ she reminded herself, forgetting her modesty, forgetting that she was a princess. _I’m a maiden._

Yet as she laid there atop the canopied bed, wordless and unblinking, Sansa found herself wishing he’d break down the door.

The handle turned once more, causing her breath to hitch in her throat, yet the oaken barrier remained closed.

Outside in the distance, dull, blunt sounds filled the night. A pyre was being built, she knew, the second in two days, though this one would be much larger. She did not know if Robb would stand out in the cold for his personal guard now that he considered him a rapist. But if he did, Sansa prayed he’d freeze to death out there. 

The morrow would bring many things. She’d smell the burning flesh in the morning air, and it would linger all day just as Theon’s had. She would be reunited with her sister after years apart. And, at some point, she would find herself face to face with the man shielding her door, the very same man who had heard her cry out his name.

A chill shot up her spine, as fear was joined by delight. The two came hand in hand now, but only when she thought of Sandor Clegane.

Over the sound of wood being stacked against wood, the knocking on the door resumed, a gentle _tap, tap, tap_ , that lulled her to sleep. 

And, for the first time in a long time, the Stranger did not visit her in her dreams.


	4. Maiden II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again reminding you this fic is dark (and perhaps a bit absurd). That is all.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

Her skin still stung from the scalding hot bath when she snuck off to the crypt without ever telling a soul.

An hour after first light, Sansa exited the Great Keep in a dark hooded cloak and scurried through the snow, due north. She held a dainty white cloth up to her nose as she crossed the yard, hoping to prevent the residual smell of Smalljon Umber’s burning flesh from entering her nostrils.

It was no good. Death’s scent pervaded through the fabric and demanded that she notice, that she breathe it in and let it fill her lungs, serving as yet another cruel reminder of what she had done.

Her dream had been the first.

It was not the Stranger who had visited her in her dreams the night before, but another. It was the antithesis of that shadow, a blinding light, comforting and warm - her father. 

Lord Eddard Stark looked exactly as she had remembered him. Not how he had looked the day Joffrey ordered Ser Ilyn to bring him his head outside the Great Sept of Baelor, but how her lord father had looked when they were home in Winterfell, together and happy.

“My little girl,” he had said, embracing her in his arms. Her father had begun to weep, something he had never done, at least not in front of his children. When she broke their embrace to gaze upon him, she gasped in fear.

His tears were red, like blood.

 _Forgive me,_ she had tried to say, but when she opened her mouth to speak, her voice would not come. _Father, please. Forgive me._

“A monster,” he had sobbed, crimson liquid streaming down his face. “He’s a monster, Sansa. My little girl….”

She had grabbed his hands and opened her mouth, making a second attempt to speak.

Nothing. 

_He’s not a monster. I’ll help him, Father._

The light around him had slowly faded, and then his hands were cold as ice. “My little girl...my little girl...my little…”

Sansa had woken herself up from sleep by saying the two words. 

“Forgive me. _”_

There had been no knocking nor tapping on the door when she awoke, but the memories of what she had done, what she had said, what the Hound had said, what her father had said, remained ingrained in her mind. 

‘ _Oh, Sandor!’_

_‘Open the bloody door!’_

_‘A monster.’_

Her maid had come at first light and drew her a boiling hot bath, as per Sansa’s orders. That had been futile. It had not mattered how hot the water was, nor how long she submerged herself underneath. Nothing could cleanse her of her sins. The lying, the wanton manner in which she pleasured herself and cried out Sandor Clegane's name; it gnawed at her from the inside out. Sansa knew what she needed to do that morning. She must needs do what she failed to do in her dream.

_I must speak with Father._

The crypt’s ever-present chill stole her breath when she entered. The cavernous crypts beneath Winterfell always felt colder than the late autumn air outside. Sansa grabbed the lit torch near the entrance and carried it with her to where her father’s tomb sat, just beside his sister's, Lyanna. She placed the torch in a nearby sconce to her right, then removed her bulky cloak and folded it neatly on the ground. When Sansa arose, she took a deep breath, smoothed out her skirts and regarded her father with her hands clasped in front of her.

A year ago, Lord Eddard Stark's bones had been returned to the North and laid to rest inside his tomb. On top was a stone statue carved in his likeness, though he did not look like the father she remembered, not like the weeping man she had seen in her dream. Just like all the high lords of Winterfell and Kings of Winter, he sat in a chair carved from stone with an iron longsword resting across his lap. A stone direwolf had been carved to curl at his feet, resembling her own wolf, the one her father had to kill - Lady. Her bones had been buried in the lichyard.

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, then began.

“F-father,” she faltered, feeling as voiceless as she had in her dream. His face, though stone, seemed to grow longer, much like it used to do when Arya would be telling him a poor lie. “Forgive me, Father.”

 _‘A monster’,_ his voice seemed to whisper inside the chilly crypt, as she stared at the two indentations meant to be his eyes. No blood leaked from them, but they disturbed her all the same. ‘ _He’s a monster.'_

“He’s not a monster. He’s not.” Sansa tried to say the words with conviction, but as they echoed above her in the vaulted ceiling, their certitude faded. “I’ll help him, Father,” she continued, her clasped hands shaking, tears welling in her eyes. “I swear it by the old gods. I’ll help him.”

Eddard Stark’s mouth was frowning worse than before, she was sure of it. The flame of the torch flickered in the bleak corridor, making her father appear to be shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Sansa stared at the longsword in his lap and then at the direwolf. _Lady._ She glanced at the torch again and then at her feet. Sansa looked everywhere except at those two hollow eyes.

“Robb,” she murmured, fussing with the front of her skirts like a child trying to talk her way out of trouble. “Robb is the one who is a-”

 _Monster,_ she meant to say, until she was interrupted by the sound of the crypt’s thick oak-and-iron door creaking open, followed by one heavy echoing step.

All the air left her lungs, leaving her voiceless once more.

It was strange to know a person by the sound of their footsteps. But the weight, the rhythm, the manner in which one’s feet carried them from one place to another, it was as unique as one's face, as distinct as one’s voice. Sandor Clegane’s especially - heavy, unhurried, and ominous.

Ominous most of all.

Sansa would have ran, but where would she have gone? Although the tombs were large, the statues were easy enough to walk around, meaning he'd find her at once. If she darted off and ran down the stairs to a lower level, that would only turn into a game of Hound and little bird, a game which she would _not_ win. No, leaving was not an option, nor was hiding. The best thing that she could do was wipe away her tears and feign innocence and composure. The best thing that she could do was pray.

His footsteps grew closer and closer, and soon she could see out of the corner of her eye the Hound's shadowed figure looming towards her. Sansa did not turn to look at him; that’s what he would want her to do. Instead, she forced herself to look straight ahead.

Her eyes widened. The former Lord of Winterfell’s stone face had changed, his expression now something akin to fear.

“The little bird keeps herself burrowed away when she should be breaking her fast.”

His voice was even harsher inside the dark hall of past Starks. It didn’t belong here. _He_ didn’t belong.

_‘A monster.’_

Sansa swallowed. “I’m praying.”

“You pray in the godswood."

“I can pray here, too.”

“Who for?” the Hound asked, still steadily approaching.

_You. Me. Us._

His footsteps had the same effect on her as when he knocked on the door, creating very similar vibrations down below. Only deeper. Much, much deeper. 

Sansa closed her eyes, if only for a moment. He was close enough now that she could smell him, his familiar musk entering her nostrils to join that of Jon Umber’s burning corpse. 

_‘He’s a monster.’_

Sansa opened her eyes. “My mother and sister.”

He snorted; Sandor Clegane seldom fell for her lies. Yet, for whatever reason, he chose not to call her out on it. “They’ll be arriving shortly.”

“Yes, they will.”

The Hound stopped just behind her, the echoes of his footsteps slowly fading into oblivion. Though she could not see him, she could feel his presence. It was overwhelming, inescapable, thicker than the stone statue sitting before her. If she stepped back one inch, she would feel his body against hers. Sansa felt the tug and pull of temptation and desired to do that very thing, until she read her father’s forlorn expression.

‘ _He’s a monster.’_

“Who’s this supposed to be?” Clegane asked.

Sansa would have slapped him - if she dared. “My father,” she answered tersely. 

“I’ve seen your father. This isn’t him.”

Her earlier remorse that had turned into fright was now becoming vexation. “His likeness is difficult to capture.”

“Or the sculptor was buggering blind,” he added. “I don’t recall Eddard Stark looking like a woman.”

She _dared_. 

Sansa spun on her heel, but when she raised her hand to show him what she thought of his unamusing remark, he caught her wrist and smirked.

She should have known it was a trap from the start.

“I knew that’d get you to turn around.”

The scarred side of his face was lost in shadow. Sansa squirmed and yanked in a feeble attempt to free herself from his grip, but she would’ve had better luck opening one of the sealed tombs. 

The Hound placed her hand to his nose and took a big sniff. “Is this the one you used?”

Her mouth fell open. “Let go of me! Let-” 

When her fingers grazed his scars, Sansa became as still as the statues of Starks past. She felt something wet and warm there, something stolen from her vision in the dim light. “You’re hurt,” she softly whispered, running the tips of her fingers down his slick, marred skin. “You’re...bleeding.”

He released a long exhale and tilted his head into her open palm, like a dog wanting to be pet. She could feel his blood painting her hand, yet she never made an attempt to close her fingers or pull away. Sansa wanted to comfort him. She wanted _this_ , for whatever and all that it was.

“A group of northmen came at me this morning bearing steel,” Sandor explained, almost tenderly. 

“Did you-” Sansa mindlessly began before stopping herself.

His voice returned to its usual raspiness. “Did I _what_?” When she remained silent, he said, “Go on, girl. _Say it_.”

She could hear her father behind her; it was as if he were screaming.

_‘A monster!’_

His voice was drowned out by Sandor Clegane’s stare. “Did you...kill them?” 

That made him laugh, his scarred cheek lifting against her palm, producing more sinister echoes to ring amongst the dead. “No, little bird, I didn’t kill them. But they’ve been ordered to take the black.”

She blinked at him, not trusting her ears. Rapists took the black, and poachers and thieves. And, very rarely, men like her half-brother Jon Snow who selflessly devoted his life to serve on the Wall. But Sansa had never heard of a man being made to take the black for attacking a man who was not of noble blood, especially if that man was the Hound.

When she could not form a sentence, let alone think of a word, Clegane said, quite smugly, “What can I say, girl? The King in the North favors the man who defended his sister’s virtue.”

Sansa looked away from him at once. Somehow she had forgotten about last night entirely the moment her fingers caressed his bleeding scars. No, it was too soon. She still was not ready to talk about that. She doubted she ever would be. Sansa closed her fingers so that his ruined cheek could no longer rest in her palm. He didn’t like that, judging by the way his jaw clenched against her knuckles.

Her voice was small when she said, “You should...you should see the maester."

“I don’t need to see a bloody maester."

The hand on her wrist grew firmer, though the grip was still not painful. She found herself hoping it would be.

“Please, let go. Robb will be looking for me if I’m not in the Great Hall to break my fast.”

The Hound ignored her and brought her hand to his mouth. “You could have had me killed. But you lied for me, didn’t you, little bird?”

And there it was. Inevitable. Inescapable. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Sansa had no choice but to acknowledge what she had done, what they had done, together. He’d never let her go, not until she came clean. And she’d be made to do so in the sight of her father.

_‘My little girl.’_

Sansa nodded, never lifting her eyes from the ground. “I did.”

“And what made you lie for me, little bird?”

 _Love,_ she immediately thought, but what she said was, “Because if I didn’t, you would have been killed.”

Sandor pressed his lips against her fingers. When she felt his warm tongue, her eyes shot up and her knees suddenly became weak. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing. 

_He’s kissing me_. _Sandor Clegane is kissing me._

He had never done that to her before, yet somehow the sensation felt familiar to her. Her body leaned into his at once. It was passing strange how she responded so naturally, as if she were accustomed to his affection. Perhaps it had been all the fantasies she had of him, or perhaps it was only meant to be. Maybe love could be like the stories and songs. But which song did the brave, gallant knight murder innocent people for the maiden's hand?

None.

“I would have,” Sandor acknowledged, his breath sultry against her skin. “I would’ve been beheaded by your brother. The _king_.” The last word echoed inside the crypt, laced with what could only be contempt. “...king...king...king....” 

_‘A monster.’_

She turned a deaf ear to the whisper behind her and said, “How did you know I would defend you?”

“I didn’t,” Clegane said bluntly. “I only knew the risk.”

 _Why did you do it?_ she thought, but said instead, “What you did...it was wrong.”

The Hound ran his tongue along the crease between her thumb and index finger, kindling that fire between her thighs. “Was it?”

“Jon...he was...he was a good man.”

He lowered her hand away from his mouth. “A _good_ man?” Sandor said bitterly. “A good man who would have had a hundred bastards outside of your marriage, not to mention he would have beat you to a bloody pulp the first time you disobeyed him.”

 _He does have his reasons,_ she realized, _as illegitimate as they are._

Curiosity became her. She needed to know more, to confirm her suspicion - a suspicion that had now become a hope.

Sansa inhaled deeply, then said on the exhale, “Why did you set him up?”

He almost stumbled over his words. “Why do you think?”

_Because you want me._

“Because he called you a dog?” Sansa guessed instead, playing innocent.

Clegane laughed. “If that was why, I would’ve killed thousands by now.”

“Haven’t you?” The words fell out, and then the blood coursing through her veins became as cold as the air in the crypt.

The eye that was not lost in the darkness shifted back and forth, studying her face. She watched as it scrutinized her, how it glistened and flashed. One second passed, and then another, and then her heart sank like a weight in her stomach when he tore out his dagger with his free hand and held it to her throat.

“You have a quick tongue, little bird.”

She gasped as a jolt ran right through her core. She could almost taste the steel, it’s dangerous edge laying its own kiss against her skin. Sansa found herself pressing herself forward, just half an inch until the blade’s kiss became a bite.

“Let go of me,” she whimpered, though she knew her pleasure was visible on her face. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes half-lidded, and her lips parted open in an O as the threat of the dagger intensified.

When he pressed the edge of the blade deeper, she didn’t only whimper, she moaned. 

The Hound’s rumbling growl filled the expanse of the crypt. “I don’t think you want me to.”

“I hate you,” she lied.

“Don’t you lie to _me_!” Clegane shouted, though his dagger never did cut. “I heard you last night! I know what you did!”

“I do hate you! You made me lie to my brother!”

“I didn’t make you do anything! That was you, little bird. That was _all_ you. You could have been honest if you wanted to, and my head could be decorating the walls!”

The words fell out again. Even with a dagger at her throat and the Hound snarling in her face, she found herself spewing quips. Or perhaps it was intentional. Perhaps she only wanted to see what would happen should she push him a little further.

Sansa fixed her gaze on his shadowed face and said, “The walls you pushed Theon over?” 

The grip on her wrist finally became painful.

The Hound shoved her back until she tripped over Lady, which then caused her to fall into her lord father's stone lap. The iron sword laying across his legs dug into the back of her thighs. Sansa could feel its edge and chill, even through the thickness of her skirts. 

Sandor gave a breathy chuckle, one that rose the hair on the back of her neck, then pointed the tip of the blade at the base of her throat. “Steel doesn’t scare you anymore.”

“Let go of me!” she said again, meaning it this time. Sansa could feel her father directly above her, her head pressed against his solid chest.

The Hound would not move; he was a statue of his own. “Open your mouth.”

She stared at him, aghast. _He means to cut out my tongue._ As absurd as it sounded, she could think of no other reason. She bit down on her folded lips and turned her head away from him.

The Hound released her wrist, only to bring that same hand to her face and pinch her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. He was somewhat gentle, even then. He placed the tip of the dagger onto her bottom lip and said, “Lick it.”

He had never said that to her before, yet much like the sensation of him kissing her hand, the command was a familiar one, the two words an acquaintance to her ears.

Sansa met his gaze. The Hound's head blocked out the torchlight, making it difficult for her to see his features; he was all shadow now, a tall, massive figure towering above her. 

His dark hair hung in between them and tickled her nose as he leaned in closer, still pinching her cheeks. Sansa could no longer smell the burned flesh of Jon Umber. The only scent lingering in her nostrils was _him_ , the shadow above her, as comforting as it was arresting. The pulsating ache between her thighs made her groan.

“Lick it,” the Hound commanded. “ _Now_!”

In the vaulted ceiling, his echoes repeated the order four more times. Sansa waited until the last was finished before surrendering.

As she brought out her tongue, Sandor turned the dagger so that she licked the flat of the blade instead of the sharpened edge. The steel was cool and smooth, and it carried a distinct taste. _It's al_ _most sweet_ , she thought, as her tongue ran across the blade from hilt to tip.

The Hound lowered his hand from her face and placed it on her thigh. “Slowly, girl, slowly.” His voice was gravelly and strained. “Yes, little bird, just like that. Gods, look at your pretty tongue. You're doing so well.”

Sansa suddenly forgot where she was. She could have been in King's Landing or the Riverlands, in the Neck or in Dorne. For all she knew, they were west of Westeros, somewhere secret and in solitude. Wherever she was, it was of no importance. His praise was all that mattered - it became the world. _He_ did. Sansa lived for his praise, his sweet words of satisfaction. With her eyes locked on the shadow of a man before her, Sansa ran the tip of her tongue along the polished blade, then swirled it around the sharp point with finesse. She did not know how she knew to do that, but it felt so...natural.

His response was a growl so guttural that she could have mistaken him for Grey Wind if she closed her eyes. 

So she did it again, twice, and then placed half the blade in her mouth and carefully sucked on it as if it were the juiciest fruit she'd ever tasted. When Sandor Clegane shifted above her, something fell noisily against the ground, metal against stone. She could not think of what it was, but it did not matter - only his praise.

“My pretty little bird. You like having my dagger in your mouth, don’t you?”

She answered with a coy nod. It was all so familiar.

“Tell me you like it.”

The blade was heavy on her tongue, but she said the words all the same. “I _love_ it.”

He exhaled harshly, as if the word pained him. Before she could lick the base of his dagger, he pulled it away from her mouth and slowly stepped back.

Sansa pushed herself up to sitting and noticed something gleaming on the ground. When she lowered her eyes, she found a sword - an iron sword. It only then occurred to her where she was sitting, where she had sucked and nearly swallowed the Hound’s dagger, where she felt herself become uncomfortably wet inside her smallclothes.

A sickness came over her. Sansa made to roll off the tomb, but was distracted by the sight in front of her: Sandor Clegane standing with his back against a giant granite pillar, while his hands were busy on the front of his breeches. No longer was he lost in shadow, but easily seen with the warm hues of the shifting fire from the torch.

And just like that, she could not remember who she was, or where.

“Play with your cunt,” ordered the Hound.

Her face was suddenly lit aflame. “W-what?”

He shoved a hand in his unlaced breeches and said, “Show me how you touched yourself last night.”

“I- I can’t.”

“Oh, you can,” he said with certainty, as that large hand pulled out something larger. 

The sight of him working his cock with his hand awoke something in her. It was captivating, yet frightening. And what followed frightened her, too. Her hands were pulling up her skirts, and then they were pulling off her boots and sliding off her hose. Her smallclothes were the last to come off. And when they did, joining the growing pile on top of the iron sword, the Hound spat in his hand and spread it along his jutting manhood.

“Show me.”

 _Familiar,_ she thought. _So familiar._

Sansa sat back in a trance, spread her legs open and placed her fingers onto her bud. It was more swollen than ever, the touch so sensitive she momentarily closed her thighs.

The Hound quickly made his displeasure known. “Open. Them,” he said sternly, without a vestige of sympathy in his tone. His hand was moving steadily along his length. It was strikingly big, even in his hand. 

Sansa kept her eyes there, her bare legs now butterflied open, then resumed her duty, caressing her swollen bud with two shaky fingers. They moved lightly at first, but once she saw him nodding his head in approval, they pressed harder and circled faster, chasing her release.

 _A dream,_ she told herself, for nothing could be so perfect. _It’s only a dream._

“Look at you go,” the Hound growled, feeding her with praise. His hand quickened on his cock to match her pace. “Do you like playing with your cunt, little bird?”

She nodded, as her hips started bucking back and forth.

_So familiar, so natural._

“Let me hear you say it.”

“I love playing with my...”

“Say it!”

_It’s only a dream._

“My cunt,” she finished, her chest feeling as if it were engulfed in flames.

Sandor briefly tossed his head back against the pillar, moving his hand up and down his length. “ _Fuck_. Tell me what you think about.”

“You,” she breathed, the response immediate, as her fingers grew quicker.

“What about me?”

The words came. So natural. “You touching me...kissing me...holding me…”

The Hound’s hand stilled on his cock. “ _Killing_ for you?” 

“Oh gods!” Sansa moaned, suddenly on the brink of peaking. That one word had the same effect as his knocks and footsteps, tenfold, producing the deepest humming sensation against her sex.

He strode towards her then, his heavy manhood bobbing up and down with his every step. “Do you like when I kill for you?”

Her voice was lost; it _was_ only a dream. Sansa nodded and removed her hand before she’d climax, fearing that once she came she would wake up. She never wanted to wake up. This dream could never end. 

Sandor took her waist, then placed one hand to where she felt herself clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, wanting to be filled by _him_.

It felt so real, her every nerve sparking to life at the touch. A long, needy moan escaped her, her eyes closing, her head arching back against some hard surface, until she felt something blunt and warm sliding up and down her wet lower lips.

No, this wasn’t a dream at all. Sansa had never once felt _that._ How could she imagine it?

Her eyes shot open, looking down to find the shadowed Hound with his cock in his hand and guiding it to where she was growing more and more wet.

“I’m a maiden,” she impulsively gasped, sounding as if she had been underwater and were coming up for air. She remembered that much, but it was all she remembered. Not where she was, or who. Only that she was a maiden, and he a Hound.

“You’re _my_ maiden,” he said, low and raspy, before spitting on his hand once more and coating her sex with it. The sensation of his thick fingers rubbing her made her arch her back against the cold hard surface.

“Oh, Sandor,” she moaned, just as she had last night, only louder. _So natural._

“Tell me."

His cock traced the outside of her entrance in circles, never penetrating. “Sandor, ohhh.”

“Are you my maiden, little bird?”

Sansa looked up at him. He was a man, a shadow.

 _So familiar._ “Y-yes.”

“Say it!” he barked.

“I’m your... _maiden_. Oh gods, I’m so...close...I’m-”

Sandor scooped the wet, sticky fluids seeping out of her and placed it on the bulbous head of his cock, grunting as he slathered it over his shaft. Even in the somber space, she could see its intimidating size, and that one bulging vein stretching across the top. 

Quite abruptly, he paused. “Tell me to stop, little bird.” His voice was thick and unsteady, not threatening, but almost...desperate.

 _No,_ she thought, _not ever._

When nothing but shallow, eager breaths passed her lips, Sandor's sudden melancholy faded. He placed the tip of his manhood to where she was aching and throbbing and wanting to be filled, then brought his hips forward a single inch.

“Oh gods!” she winced. It did not hurt so bad, but the anticipation of what was to come made her squeal. “Oh gods! Sandor! It’s not going to fit!”

An odd noise escaped him, something between laugh and a moan. He pushed forward another inch, his dark hair veiling his shadowy face.

 _My_ _shadow,_ she realized. _You’re my shadow. I've been dreaming of you, all this time._

Another inch filled her, and then another, stretching, stinging, burning, yet beautifully so. He was holding his breath, she could tell, and dripping sweat. Or perhaps that was only his blood. Either were welcome to drip onto her neck.

Sansa's hands pushed against his chest when she felt the sensation of something snapping inside of her. It was subtle enough, yet noticeable and shocking. She let out a sharp whimper, but never would she say the word: _stop_. All she wanted was for the worst to be over, to feel the pleasure she felt when she lay alone in bed - that’s what she wanted. Even if it meant pain. Even if it meant blood. 

Especially if it meant blood.

A tear fell down her cheek. Her skin was becoming clammy, her limbs growing tingly and numb. Each time he would give her an inch, he’d take it right back. Then he’d give her an inch plus another and pull out again. Soon, her hips were bucking the same as they had last night. She groaned, no longer from the pain of being stretched to accommodate his size, but from her growing frustration. 

He was trying to be gentle with her, much like how he pushed and grabbed her with a carefulness. But then something came over him, something hungry and selfish that took her every whimper and moan as encouragement to bury himself inside of her faster. And then, once she felt the thick, coarse hair surrounding the base of his cock brush against her lower lips, the Hound let out a lengthy, shaky breath, almost laughing. 

“She’s mine, now,” Sansa heard him say, as if someone was watching them. If someone was, she’d never know, for her eyes were squeezed shut from the sensation of being so _full_. “ _Mine,"_ he repeated. 

_I am,_ she agreed in silence. _Oh, I am._

He took her thighs and pushed them back until her knees were in line with her ears. Sansa was spread wide open for him, a dish served for him to devour. Sansa looked down and watched in the dying torchlight as he slid in and out of her at an even rhythm, her lower lips protruding out and swallowing him whole.

Sansa hoped she’d remember that sight forever.

He was more beast than man now, more Hound than Sandor Clegane. Every thrust he delivered was punctuated by her high pitched gasps and squeals and moans. It was pain and pleasure and everything in between. 

As he continued to hold back her legs, the Hound said, panting, “Touch yourself. Play with your pretty cunt while I fuck you.”

She’d need to, for as good as it felt, Sansa did not know how to come like this. Yet the moment she dug her hand between her thighs and found that familiar sweet spot between her swollen lips, she shuddered and squeezed around him.

“Ohhh,” she purred, savoring the tenderness and pleasure all at once. “Ohhh, yes!”

“That’s it, little bird.” More praise. She loved his praise. She needed it more than air. “Let me hear you sing while I fuck you bloody.”

“I want…” When his cock slipped out, he buried it back in her with one smooth thrust. “Oh gods! Sandor...I want…”

“Tell me what you want,” the Hound grunted over the wet smacking sounds of their bodies. “I’ll do anything for you. I’ll kill anyone for you.”

Her nipples were uncomfortably stiff inside her bodice. Sansa tugged on it with her other hand and said, “Off... _please_.”

She needn’t say another word.

By his next thrust, his knuckles were brushing across her chest, as his hands ripped apart her dress.

It was all a blur. As fabric was being torn off her body, Sandor’s hips never slowed down once. The next thing she knew she was fully nude on that cold, hard surface, and her breasts were bouncing freely upon his every thrust. He took one in his hand and fondled it with natural skill.

“Are you going to let me kill for you, little bird?” her shadow asked.

She flicked her bud with her fingertip, again and again, and answered, “Yes...ohhh, yes!”

“Are you going to lie for me?”

“Oh! I’m about to-”

The Stranger grabbed her greedy hand. “Tell me you’ll lie for me, then I’ll let you come.”

“I’ll lie for you!” she cried out. Only then was she given the privilege to move her hand. And she did, _furiously_ , circling her fingers until her climax stole her breath. Sansa clutched onto the wall behind her with one hand and opened her eyes to look up at the shadow, the Stranger, Sandor Clegane. “Oh gods! Sandor! I love you!”

He immediately fell forward and bent her all the way back with his weight. “ _FUCK_!”

His movements slowed, his body spasmed, the sounds escaping him were feral and nothing human, and Sansa closed her eyes and embraced the sensation of him filling her. That was her favorite part, even better than her climax.

After another moment, once his seed was now coating her walls, Sandor pulled out his cock. He grunted and cursed as he did it, then said, “Look, little bird.”

He grabbed the back of her neck with his hand and lifted her head for her, almost painfully.

Sansa opened her eyes. In that dying torchlight, as he gradually grew soft, his cock glistened wet and red with her maiden’s blood. 

She stared at it for quite some time, much like she had stared at the puddles of blood underneath Theon Greyjoy and Jon Umber. 

Nothing had ever been so beautiful.

The hand on the back of her neck forced her head up. “You’re _mine_ ,” Sandor Clegane said, breathless, before kneeling on the ground and burying his face between her thighs. He bit one softly, taking the soft flesh between his teeth and teasing it to make her squeal and squirm. The last words he said before falling quiet were, “My little bird.”

Her heart never rested and thumped and thumped and thumped. It was all she could hear in the now silent, dusky space, until a weeping whisper in her ear reminded her where she was.

_‘My little girl.’_

Sansa tilted her head back and looked up. 

Two dark streaks sullied her father’s face, extending from his right eye down towards his chin. The sickening realization hit her then; that was what she had clutched onto just before her release. Sansa held her hands up to her eyes and squinted. Both of her palms were coated with blood. Some would have been Sandor’s, some would have been her own. Her hands started to shake, followed by her legs, and soon she felt so cold and ill that she thought she might lean over and retch. 

_Forgive me,_ Sansa prayed, as Eddard Stark sat inside the crypt and shed tears of blood.


	5. Northmen

_‘Are you going to lie for me?’_

Sansa looked into the heavy-lidded blue eyes before her. “Father’s statue was broken when I entered the crypt.”

The King in the North stared at her, unblinking. “Did you see anyone?”

_‘Tell me you’ll lie for me, then I’ll let you come.’_

She swallowed, as tears rolled down either side of her cheeks. “Not a soul.”

The king’s hands clenched into fists on top of the table. When she stole a glance at the man standing sentry behind the dais, her sex clenched not once, but twice.

She wanted more. 

Even so, Sansa winced at how tender she was, having been stretched open to accommodate the size of Sandor Clegane’s manhood. It had not mattered how wet she was, nor how aroused; she was little and a maiden, and he was big and a Hound - the soreness that blossomed came as no surprise. If anything, Sansa was grateful for it. It meant that it had been real. The dagger, his cock, the blood. All of it. 

The mere memory made her nipples stiffen, even when standing before the king. As Sansa watched him lean over and ask Bran where the wolves were, she could feel the Hound’s seed still pooling inside her smallclothes; she wondered how much longer it would keep coming out of her. And, more than that, she wondered how she would get her hands on moon tea without Robb becoming any the wiser.

An hour ago she had left the crypt, ragged and alone, and returned to her bedchamber. Even with her heavy hooded cloak hiding her disheveled state, people had greeted her in the yard. “A fine morning, my princess,” Mikken had said. “Today’s the day.”

 _Yes, today is the day Mother returns home,_ she had thought.

_With Arya._

Sansa had freshened up as quickly as possible, removing the dress that had been ripped at the seams and slipping off her small clothes that were stained and drenched. She hid all of the evidence of losing her maidenhead underneath the cloaks inside the ironwood chest at the end of her bed. By the time she had finished wiping herself clean from head to toe, the white cloth was red with blood. 

It had been everywhere, in her fingernails and hair, on her neck and thighs and breasts. And on Father. On his face, in his lap, along his arms in thin scarlet streaks. That sacred stone carved in her father’s likeness was now stained with the blood of her lost innocence and the man who had taken it away.

It had to be done. It had to. The blood would have never fully come out of the stone, Sandor had said that himself. And once Mother and Arya arrived, they would go down to the crypt and pay their respects at once. 

They would have noticed.

Yes, Sandor had to destroy it - he _had_ to. Besides, the statue never really did look like Father at all. The replacement statue would look like him - Sansa would make sure of it.

As the king sat on the dais, contemplating and contemplating, the northmen inside the Great Hall softly muttered to one another. Bran sat to the king’s left, picking at the food on his plate and never meeting her gaze, while Rickon left the table, despite Maester Luwin’s wishes, and stood beside Sandor with a smile on his little face. Finally, after another moment of her standing before him as if she were on trial, the king rose slowly and looked out amongst the northmen. 

“The man who desecrated my father’s tomb will answer for it with his head. Henceforth, no man enters the crypt without my leave, else I will send him to serve my brother on the Wall.” 

Outside, a trio of wolves were howling in unison, far, far away.

“Your Grace,” Dacey Mormont spoke up, arising from her seat near the front of the hall. She was the lone woman in Robb’s personal guard, and fiercer than all the rest. “I don’t think I’m alone when I say I’m inclined to believe those responsible for vandalizing your father’s tomb were the same men who attacked Clegane.”

“Aye,” Ser Donnel Locke chimed in from across the hall. “Umber’s supporters, Your Grace. A cruel act of vengeance after pardoning Clegane for defending the princess’ virtue. I’d wager they did it just before they came at him with their swords.”

Sansa could not believe it. Not only were _northmen_ defending the Hound, but members of the king’s own personal guard were placing the blame on the wrong men. She took another quick glance at the Hound and saw that he was now carrying Rickon in his arms.

The king did not bother turning around before asking, “Clegane, when you were attacked near the armory, which direction did the men come from?”

“North, Your Grace,” he answered without hesitation. It was the right answer, the right lie. The crypt was north of the armory, and that was all Robb needed to hear. 

“There you have it,” another northman voiced, but Sansa did not look to see who. She was too engrossed by the man holding her youngest brother. A man who was once so honest, now the most beautiful of liars. Rickon whispered something into his stump of an ear, unafraid, and the Hound almost smiled.

Robb Stark looked to Ser Donnel, his face mottled with fury. “Go to the cells, grab the men, and bring them to the yard. Clegane, find a block. I’ll not have these men sent to the Wall. I’ll have their heads.”

The hall buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps. When her eyes, now wide with disbelief, fell on Sandor Clegane, she discovered him staring at her with the same expression he had worn when Smalljon Umber’s corpse rested at his feet.

 _He’s proud of me,_ she thought, holding back a smile. _He’s giving me silent praise._

A half hour later, Sansa broke her fast inside her bedchamber and listened to the northmen’s shouts.

“ _Vandals_!”

“ _Traitors_!”

“ _Liars_!”

“ _Burn in hell_!”

Robb had ordered Dacey Mormont to see her and Rickon to their bedchambers before the executions would take place. Rickon was too young, the king had explained, and Sansa too squeamish. Robb treated her as if she had not watched their father be beheaded, as if she had not been forced to stare at him afterward, as if she had not seen Theon’s caved-in head and Jon Umber’s throat after it had been cut open from ear to ear.

The King in the North would have let her watch if he knew she had looked upon Sandor Clegane’s bloody cock and slavered at the sight. 

It was a fruitless attempt by him. Although the windows in her bedchamber did not look out onto the yard where the crowd of northerners gathered, she could hear the screams all the same, even with the shutters closed.

“It wasn’t us!” one man cried out. “I swear it by the old gods! By the old gods, Your Grace!”

“I served your father!” another shouted desperately. “I’ve served House Stark all my life! Please, Your Grace! I’ve known you since you were a babe!”

“It was him!” said a third, hysterically. Sansa held her breath as she listened. “It was the dog! _Look at him_! He did it! It was—”

Robb’s longsword hit the ironwood block thrice that morning, and the truths that had fallen from the mouths of the three northmen were gone with the wind. 

The King in the North’s arm might have swung the sword, but it was a lie that had killed those men. It was Sansa who placed their heads on the block. It was Sandor who wielded the sword. It was them together, again, and three more innocent lives had come to an end.

 _They were not innocent men,_ she told herself a moment later. _They would have killed the man I love._

Yes, they deserved to die. Anyone who tried to take Sandor Clegane away from her did.

Sansa had managed two bites of bread and a full cup of water before slipping into bed for a nap, her _own_ bed now that her bedchamber had been cleared of Umber’s blood. Her body ached all over, her eyes had become heavy, and as the day grew older, Sansa found herself becoming increasingly uneasy about her sister’s arrival. 

Arya hated the Hound. She had been suspicious of him the moment he came to Winterfell with King Robert years ago, and she _loathed_ him for killing that butcher’s boy; Sansa could not even remember the boy’s name. Unless the time apart had made her little sister a completely different person, Sansa was certain trouble would brew the moment Arya Stark set foot through the gates. 

Setting aside the thoughts of her sister and father, Sansa closed her tired eyes and drifted off to sleep thinking of Sandor Clegane.

Some time later, her dreamless sleep was interrupted by three soft knocks.

Sansa’s heart sang at the sound. She rolled over upon hearing the door open and groggily said, “I was hoping you’d-”

As her eyes fluttered open, she found auburn and blue where there should have been dark and grey and immediately wished she could take back and swallow her words.

Robb raised an eyebrow and closed the door behind him. “The retinue can be seen on the horizon,” the king informed her, as he walked towards the bed. His steps were hesitant, a breath slower than they ought to be. “Mother and Arya should be here within the hour.”

Sansa rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands and prayed that the suspicion she heard in his tone was only due to her disoriented state. When she licked her lips, she could somehow still taste the sweetness of Sandor’s dagger. 

“Oh, very well,” she said.

The king halted beside the bed. The dark circles underneath his eyes had somehow become twice as large in the time that she had napped. Then again, he did just execute three men for a crime they did not commit. If only he knew… 

An awkward silence passed between the two, until Robb finally said, “What were you going to say when I walked in?”

_‘Are you going to lie for me?’_

She raised her eyes; Robb looked so much like her, what she would look like if she were a man. “I-I can’t remember,” she lied. “I was asleep and dreaming of...”

“Of who?” he asked curtly.

_‘Tell me you’ll lie for me, then I’ll let you come.’_

Sansa squeezed her thighs together underneath the furs. “Theon.”

In the blink of an eye, Robb’s demeanor softened. He somberly walked across the bedchamber to open a window. “Forgive me, Sansa.” He took a deep breath. “So much has happened in the last two days, it feels like Theon’s death was ages ago. I...I have not even burned the bodies. Mother should not come home to the scent of burning men.” 

She did not feel pity for him, not after he had Maester Luwin examine her without her consent. A second silence passed, more painful than the first. 

_Why is he here?_ she wondered. _Anyone could have brought me the news about Mother._

His eyes left the window and fell to the spot where the Smalljon had been killed the night before. There had been a puddle of blood there, yet the stain on the stone was scarcely visible. Sansa began to wonder if Sandor needed to destroy her father’s statue after all.

“Robb,” she finally said, when the king would not look away from the floor. “I would like to freshen up before Mother arrives.”

He startled, as if he had been asleep. Perhaps he had been. The king had not slept in two days and was slowly unravelling. “Of course,” he said with an artificial smile. When he turned around, the lone sun beam coming from the window made his bronze and iron crown gleam like a ring of fire. 

He paused at the door with his hand hovering over the handle, then looked over his shoulder. “Sansa, did you and the Smalljon ever…”

She crossed her arms. “Did we ever what?”

“Kiss?” he asked bluntly, turning away from the door. “Perhaps more? Were the two of you intimate in any way before last night?”

Sansa dug her nails into her skin. “Are you, my own brother, insinuating that I encouraged a man to rape me?”

“He was not the sort of a man who would...” Robb trailed off. 

Doubt was becoming him - _again_. That was dangerous.

_‘Are you going to lie for me?’_

Sansa took a deep breath. “The Smalljon was the sort of man who held a dagger to my throat and told me he would fuck me bloody.”

The lie sounded so convincing, she almost believed it herself. The king’s sleepless eyes took on a haunted look, transfixed on her. Robb would have known she couldn’t have made that up, that the words had once been spoken. What he didn’t know was who had said them. What he didn’t know was that she loved the man who did.

Robb fell silent and took one last glance at the floor before turning around and exiting her bedchamber. 

_‘A monster’,_ Sansa remembered her father’s words, not thinking of Sandor Clegane, but of the King in the North. _‘He’s a monster’._

Sansa fell back onto the bed and let out a lengthy exhale. She closed her eyes, not to return to sleep, but to pray for Sandor. That is, if the old gods would still listen to her. She did not know if they would, but she needed to try. Eventually, Sandor would be caught if he kept this up. He was impulsive and reckless and possessive. Possessive most of all. She needed to do what she had sworn to her father, what she had sworn by the old gods. 

She needed to help him — she _must_.

Midway through her prayer, Sansa heard the door to her bedchamber swiftly open and shut. By the time she pushed herself up to sitting, the Hound had barred the door and was lumbering towards the open window.

“Sandor,” she gasped. When he slammed the shutters closed, she gasped again. Never had he come inside her bedchamber alone before, aside from last night when he saved her from being raped. “What are you doing? My mother will be here any—”

She was cut off when he yanked her legs off the bed and pulled her down until her bottom rested on the edge. Not a word passed his lips, not until he tossed up her skirts, pulled off her hose, and flung her small clothes onto the freshly scrubbed stone.

“Gods,” he cursed, after kneeling down to be at eye level with her sex. The Hound leaned forward and pressed his lips onto her bud, the most gentle of kisses. When Sansa squirmed upon the touch, he seized her hips and pinned her to the bed. “Look at this pretty cunt. This pretty, swollen cunt.”

Together, the praise and touch were all but suffocating. He kissed her again in the same place and then flicked it with his tongue. 

“Sandor!”

The Hound spat on one finger, then gingerly slipped it inside. Her beaten walls clenched around his knuckle. “Is your pretty cunt sore, little bird?”

A small squeal escaped her. She shook her head and said, “No.”

“Don’t you lie to me. It _is_ ,” he groaned with pleasure, letting his finger sit inside a moment longer before pulling it out. The sudden emptiness hurt - she wanted more. “Your pretty cunt is sore from my cock.”

The words sounded like heaven leaving his mouth. Sansa closed her eyes and rolled her head back and forth on the mattress. “S-Sandor.”

He squeezed her hips, preventing her from bucking them; Sansa was trapped and snared by those large hands. “Tell me, little bird.”

“It’s _sore_ ,” she whimpered.

“From?”

Sansa blushed after saying, “Your…cock.”

He growled, then pressed his lips to her tender entrance with a wet _smack_. “Do you want my cock again?”

“Ohhh, yes.”

“ _Say it_!”

“I want your cock!”

Something more menacing than a growl escaped him, as his fingers combed her soft copper maidenhair. “Do you want me to come inside your cunt, little bird?”

“Yes,” she breathed, then swiftly added, “I want you to come inside my cunt.”

He chuckled darkly. “That’s it, my girl.” Sandor Clegane kissed the inside of her thigh. “Such a smart little bird,” he continued to praise her, as his mouth traveled higher and higher, “lying for me, repeating after me.” He kissed and kissed, and then paused as soon as she could feel his warm breath beating against her bud. “Are you going to repeat after me, my little bird?”

His breath alone felt as sweet as his lips. “Y-yes, I’ll repeat after you.”

“Do you want me to fuck you with my mouth?”

“I want you to fuck me with your mouth,” she echoed, so fluently.

And just like that, Sansa could not remember where she was again, or who, only that there was a head between her thighs and a tongue as warm as a beam of sunlight running down her slit from her maidenhair down to her entrance - and then a little lower.

Her body grew as stiff as carved stone, yet her hands managed to find their way to the Stranger’s head between her thighs. She pushed and pushed, but it was no good - her shadow would not budge an inch. Sansa could only submit.

The Hound was doing to her sex what the Stranger did to her mouth in her dreams. Opening and closing his jaw, kissing her deeply, except now his mouth took in her folds when he’d pucker his lips. He tugged on them. He sucked on them. He raked his teeth along the tender flesh and teased her with his tongue. The noises escaping her were foreign to her ears, small and meek and pitiful mewls that made her sound like a pup on its dying breath as it was being devoured by a beastly predator. 

“S-Sandor,” she cried, thighs shaking, even in his iron grip, “I...I want…”

He hummed against her sex in response, deep vibrations that made her heart skip over its own rhythm. “Tell me what you want.” His words were muffled, his tone so sinister that she felt an icy chill run down her spine. “ _Say it._ ”

“I want _you_ ,” she whined, arching her back just so, yet unable to escape his erect, lapping tongue. It was constant - the licking, the sucking, the pulling and humming. Her want became a need, essential and insatiable. “ _Please_ , I want your cock,” she begged, repeating the words he taught her. “ _Please_ , fuck me with your cock.”

It was no good. She pleaded and pleaded but he was anchored to the floor with his face buried between her thighs. Her chin quivered when his pace increased, and then she took handfuls of his thin, dark hair when he released one hip and pulled back the hood of her bud, his sucking and slurping sending her over the edge. 

When her thighs closed in around his head, he spread her thighs apart so quickly that one of her joints popped. Sansa bit down on her hand to keep herself from crying out at the top of her lungs. The Hound moved slowly as she peaked, fastening her on the mattress as he circled his tongue over her every inch, showing her no mercy. Suddenly, Sansa felt something warm trickling out of her, though she could not say for certain what it was. 

Whatever the fluid was, it made Sandor Clegane hum “mhmmm” as he gathered it in his mouth. He would scoop his tongue and then lick and swallow. Scoop, lick, swallow, again and again. The Hound was _drinking_ her, like how a cat might devour a bowl of milk. 

She came crashing down, the longest fall from the tallest summit, yet he was there to catch her with his hands wrapped fully around the back of her knees as he spread her wide and nuzzled her swollen bud with his hooked nose. 

Her mouth was cold and numb and tasted of blood. When she pulled her hand away from her mouth, she discovered that she had broken the thin flesh between her index finger and thumb. The sight and taste made Sansa want to come again. It made her think of her father and want to cry. It made her want to rip Sandor Clegane off her and watch his cock disappear inside her. 

Some seconds later, the heat beating against her sex was lost, only to return to her quivering mouth. Sandor had climbed on top of her and was kissing her, breath-stealing kisses, heart-leaping embraces. Sansa closed her eyes and fell back into her dreams. Her tongue knew where to go, her hands knew what to caress, and her lips followed his lead without faltering. Strange lips with a strange touch, just like the Stranger’s. Her arms found their way around his broad neck, in the throes of kissing Sandor Clegane, as she tasted herself on him, the notes of blood and salt the most savory of tastes.

And then he pulled away.

Sansa lifted her head and watched him pull out his cock as he stood at the edge of the bed. His manhood was stiff and red and heavy, more beautiful now that daylight spilled through the shutters.

“Turn around,” the Hound commanded.

Her heart was set to burst with exhilaration. Without hesitating, Sansa did as she was told and rolled onto her belly.

“That’s my little bird. Get on your hands and knees.”

She did that too, no matter how strange it felt. She did all of it. If not for his cock, then for his praise.

“Face down. Arch your back. Spread your knees apart.”

“Like this?” asked Sansa innocently, sticking out her lower lips the best that she could. “Am I doing it right?”

More growls blessed her ears - and then something even better. “You’re doing bloody _perfect_ , my little bird. You’re _my_ perfect, pretty little bird.”

The praise stole her breath. His brusque commands were replaced by the sound him spitting, followed by quick, shallow breaths.

Sansa looked over her shoulder. The Hound was pleasuring himself to the sight of her, standing no more than a foot away.

Her sex was pining for that staff in his hand to open her wide. 

“Come closer,” she whined.

Without ever slowing his pace, he reached down with his free hand and grabbed the dagger off his fallen breeches. He tossed it onto the bed, then said, “ _Suck it_.”

Sansa wondered if words alone could make her come. The dagger’s leather handle gave her an intoxicating rush the instant it touched her palm. Before placing the steel to her lips, she looked over at him and said, “But...you won’t be able to see me.”

“Put it in your mouth and move your head up and down,” Clegane panted, as he worked his cock. “Now!”

Sansa looked away from his thick manhood and held the blade in front of her. When she closed her eyes and opened her mouth, she imagined it was him she was sucking once she wrapped her lips around the steel.

“ _Very_ good, little bird,” said Sandor Clegane, as she bobbed her head up and down the blade. She moaned upon hearing the praise and then gagged when the point touched the back of her throat. “Oh fuck, do that again, my little bird,” he commanded. And so she did, even if it made her feel sick. Her tongue brushed along the flat of the blade as she moved up and down, but the temptation to taste its edge grew with every eager suck. “ _Fuck_ , are you going to suck my cock that way?”

She moaned in the affirmative, her spit dripping out the corner of her mouth.

A massive hand fell on her ass, its touch almost threatening. 

“ _Tell me_ ,” he rasped.

“I’m going to suck your cock this way,” she said as best as she could, never removing the steel.

He moaned and ran one finger down the crease between her cheeks. Sansa gasped when it stopped halfway, then whimpered against the dagger when the tip of his thumb pressed inside. “So fucking tight,” said the Hound, blessing her with more praise. “And the other. Say it.”

“I want your cock inside me,” Sansa answered, instinctively squeezing around his thumb and rocking her hips back and forth.

“Not that, the other,” said Sandor Clegane, so desperate. “Tell me the other.”

That confused her for a moment, until she remembered what she had said to him inside the crypt. Three words were the bane of Sandor Clegane. Sansa removed the dagger from her mouth and watched as her spit dripped along its edge. “I love you,” she confessed once again, the words tasting as sweet as steel and blood. “I love you, Sandor.”

A curse caught in his throat, gravelly and strained. It was the most wicked thing she had ever heard. Sansa smiled with the flat of the dagger pressed against her lips. He removed his thumb from her tight hole and spent himself on her this time, aiming his cock to spill onto the rim of one entrance as it dripped onto the other. She moaned softly as he did it, squeezing and clenching as if he were inside her, wishing that he was. She felt stuck in that position afterward, back arched and head flush against the mattress, mindlessly planting kisses on the tip of his weapon. Once his seed had spilled and his moaning had quieted, Sansa made to sit up at the sound of him pulling up his breeches.

Before she could move an inch, the Hound was grabbing her foot and guiding it into her smallclothes, dressing her like a doll.

“W-wait,” she stammered, taken unawares. “I need to clean up.”

“No,” he said gruffly. Clegane slid up her smallclothes, tossed over her skirts, and flipped her onto her back. Sansa looked up and saw sweat glistening on his forehead. For all she knew, that could have been from her. He snatched the dagger out of her hand and sheathed it at his hip. “I want you to keep it there.”

Sansa had become so engrossed by him that she had forgotten what they were talking about. “Keep..what?”

“All day. Will you do that for me, little bird? Will you walk around the castle with my seed on your tight, pretty arse?”

She nodded at once, but quickly remembered that would not suffice. “I’ll walk around the castle with your seed on my arse,” Sansa repeated, the tone of her voice so small and sweet. She cupped his marred cheek with her hand, hoping to find blood. “All day.”

He pulled her up to sitting by the throat. When he kissed her, Sansa closed her eyes and fell into something deeper.

“Think about what you want. I’ll do anything for you,” the Hound told her, his damp, earthy breath sweeter than the crisp autumn air. It was what he had said to her inside the crypt that morning, she remembered, just before tearing off her dress. He kissed her again, deeper and harder, then whispered, “I’ll kill anyone for you.”

Outside, the King in the North was belting out a command. “ _Open the gates_!”

Sandor’s massive hand released her throat. When she opened her eyes, he was gone, as silent as a shadow when he needed to be, as ominous as a monster when he wanted to be.

Minutes later, Sansa departed her bedchamber to greet her mother and sister with the sensation of Sandor Clegane’s seed perceptible with her every step.


	6. Needle I

The retinue arrived at Winterfell, bringing along the first biting winds of winter.

The instant Sansa stepped out into the yard, the late autumn breeze picked up and turned into something sinister. Its embrace was cruel, not only icy, but bitter, hostile, coming from the north.

Coming from the direction of the godswood.

 _The old gods are angry with me,_ she knew, as she made her way across the blustery yard. _But if I help Sandor, perhaps I will be forgiven. And perhaps the old gods will be good enough to forgive him, too._

Sansa could hear the angry chatter of the weirwood’s five-pointed leaves as the wind swirled about her, tossing her hair in front of her face and leaving her all but blind. One gust was so relentless that it tore away the hood of her cloak, allowing those willing to brave the weather to greet the mother of the king and the youngest princess to see Sansa’s flushed appearance. 

_No one knows,_ she reminded herself, as she mimed an innocent smile to all those she passed by. _No one knows anything. I’m a princess to them. A princess of five-and-ten. I’m an honest, innocent maiden, still._

One of her knees gave out as she trudged through the snow, her body still weak after being pleasured by the Hound's mouth. The memory gave her gooseprickles, a chill the hateful wind never could. Yes, she liked when he did that; there was no sense in being coy about it. The Hound wanted her to say it. Sansa liked being fucked by his mouth. She had never known a man could do such a thing to a woman - not like that. Even so, no matter how pleasurable it had been, it was no substitute for him, his cock, and the sensation of him spilling inside her. It didn’t make sense to her then, her mind having been clouded by blood and lust and steel alike, but as she approached her three brothers near the gate and observed Sandor Clegane standing just behind them, Sansa realized that he was giving her sex time to heal from earlier.

It was so sweet of him, chivalrous even, to not want to hurt her, yet Sansa would have sooner been fucked bloody.

The King in the North looked half a corpse as he awaited the party to enter through the South Gate. His auburn hair, blowing in the wind as lustily as hers, looked like a flame dancing on a torch. He wasn't wearing his crown, she realized, but instead held it in one hand. Neither Bran nor Rickon looked remotely pleased to be outside in the brewing storm, and Sansa had never seen Maester Luwin so irritable in all her life. But once Sandor Clegane took a quick glance in her direction, she could not feel the suffocating cold at all. She could not hear the angry whispers coming from the heart tree, nor could she feel the aches in her body. All she could feel as their bodies grew closer was her manic, beating pulse, and the warmth that blossomed inside of her.

“Gods, Sansa, you took long enough,” said the king, ever the more displeased. He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. “Did the Others come into your bedchamber? I had half a mind to send Clegane for you.”

That angered her, until she took one last step to stand directly in front of the Hound and felt the wetness of his seed between her cheeks. Sansa bowed her head and stifled a smile. Robb’s ignorance was reassuring - it meant that their lies were convincing. Or perhaps it only meant he was too tired to contemplate them. Either way, she and Sandor were winning.

The snow continued to fall, not wispily like before, but heavily, angrily. When an abrupt gale blew, Sansa lost her balance and would have fallen over into the seething, sleepless king had two heavy hands not found her shoulders and steadied her. 

“Easy, princess,” said Sandor Clegane, as he squeezed her shoulders firmly, possessively.

She thought of how those hands felt as they pinned her hips to the bed a moment ago, pining for their return. Those two strong hands lingered a second longer before pulling away.

Sansa bit down on her tongue to keep herself from groaning in protest.

“We ought to have waited inside the Great Hall,” the king grumbled to himself. The longer he went without sleep, the more he sounded like Joffrey. “This storm took us all unawares. Even the wolves decided to come into the bloody castle.”

She was too engrossed by Sandor to have noticed that. Sansa surveyed the yard and found two direwolves sniffing the ground just outside the Great Hall: Summer and Grey Wind. However, there was no sign of the third, Shaggydog.

_How odd._

“I’m cold,” Rickon whined.

“Look,” said Sansa, pointing ahead as figures began to emerge in the tunnel, “they’re entering the gates now.” Their brother Bran gave her a sidelong glance, then looked on ahead. When Rickon continued to shiver dramatically, she reached out her hand and said, “Come, you can stand inside my cloak.”

He pouted and shook his head. “I want to stand by Sandor.”

“Gods, Rickon!” the King in the North snapped, the iciness in his tone as unforgiving as the wind. “For the last time, he’s a guard, not your father!”

Their little brother crossed his arms and huffed. “I wish he was.”

Sansa covered her mouth in shock.

 _Rickon was only three when he last saw Father,_ she thought. _And Sandor has been more of a father to him than anyone. Even more than Robb._

The temptation to turn around and observe Sandor’s expression was excruciating. It was certainly wise not to, though. Robb was already grinding his teeth beside her, loud enough for Sansa to hear it over the surges of wind. No doubt he took Rickon’s remark as a deep insult - a personal jab. The king might have even smacked their brother on the head for it, were Mother not riding through the gates. 

Sansa did not realize how much she missed her until she saw her vivid hair fluttering in the wind beyond the curtain of snow. An innocent smile played on her lips, as she watched her mother dismount her chestnut palfrey with the assistance of Ser Donnel. Her mother looked younger than her almost forty years. It was strange, even a bit disconcerting, to think that Sandor Clegane was closer to her mother’s age than her own. 

Ser Rodrik Cassel dismounted next, followed by the ten northmen Robb had sent to accompany them to the Riverlands. Yet instead of seeing her little sister ride through the gates, there were visitors. Men from the Riverlands, _l_ _ords_ from the Riverlands who would have come for Sansa’s name day celebration in four day’s time. Their visit doubtless was innocent considering she was betrothed when they had made their way north. But now that she was not, Sansa knew what this could turn into. What it _would_ turn into. 

Sansa could feel the Hound’s presence behind her, ominous, just like it had been inside the crypt.

 _He sees it too,_ she knew. _Potential suitors._

_More men to kill._

"My little darlings," Mother's voice said, stealing Sansa's attention away from the unwelcome guests. She watched as Mother greeted Bran and Rickon first, then Robb, and finally her.

Mother brought her hand to her mouth and coughed into a square of red silk, cupping her cheek with her other hand. 

“My little girl,” she smiled.

_‘He’s a monster!’_

Sansa shivered. “Mother, you look lovely,” said Sansa, though she looked far from it. Sansa hadn't noticed it from far away, but her mother's eyes were red and puffy, her lips were dry, and judging by the gauntness of her face, she had lost weight during the trip. Even so, Sansa remembered her courtesies. It would not be kind to comment on her appearance, especially after such a long journey. “Where’s Arya?”

“Dawdling around Winter Town, my princess,” answered Ser Rodrik, as he bowed his head to the king. "Your Grace."

Mother coughed again, harsh and throaty, then wiped her mouth with the cloth. 

“Are you well, Mother?” asked Robb, sounding more irritated than concerned. “Perhaps Maester Luwin should-”

Their mother waved a dismissive hand. “Is Theon too busy shooting arrows somewhere to greet his soon to be good mother?”

Reality hit her like a steel fist.

For a moment, Sansa had forgotten. She had truly forgotten. How could she be smiling at her mother and complimenting her appearance when her betrothed had fallen from the castle walls two days prior? How could she be acting so calm when she had nearly been raped the night before? When Father’s tomb had been desecrated that morning and the three men guilty of the crime had been beheaded for it?

At once, Sansa brought her hands to her face and faked a mournful cry. 

Robb cleared his throat. “Mother, I must needs speak with you inside the solar. This would be better discussed in private.”

Over the howling wind, Sansa could hear Bran begin to cry. Yet unlike her own, his grief was genuine.

“What has happened?” asked Catelyn Stark urgently, coughing again and again. “Where is Theon?”

A gleeful gasp coming from across the yard deferred the conversation - for now.

“Princess Arya!”

No two words belonged less together than those. It was almost jarring to the ears, listening as the castle staff greeted the second princess of Winterfell from the ramparts.

She lowered her hands from her face. In that first glimpse, Sansa could tell the time apart had changed her little sister, and not for the better.

Arya Stark was a girl of three-and-ten now, yet almost everything about her looked the same. Her hair was shorter, yet just as messy. She was a couple inches taller, Sansa noticed, once she swung off the saddle, yet still much smaller than her. Arya was just as skinny, if not skinnier than she had been in King’s Landing, yet her face seemed longer, reminding Sansa of that face carved from stone that had been befouled by blood. 

Their sister approached with a mission, unsmiling. Arya did not acknowledge her, nor did she so much as glance at Robb. She did not greet Bran as he continued to sniffle in his chair, nor did she return Rickon’s sweet smile. Instead, her sister's grey eyes were fixed on the man standing behind her, so full of hate, they reminded Sansa of how Sandor Clegane had looked at the Smalljon hours before cutting his throat.

“Why is he here?” Arya asked, to no one in particular. “Why is the Hound _here_?”

 _Mother never told her,_ Sansa realized. _Even she knows how much Arya despises him. Perhaps Mother feared she would never come home at all if she knew Sandor Clegane would be living in the same castle._

“Because he saved my life,” Sansa answered when no one else would. Not a minute had gone by and she was already growing impatient with her sister’s lack of couth. It was supposed to be so sweet seeing her. But when had it ever been sweet with Arya? “Are you going to acknowledge us or not?”

Arya’s frown progressed into a scowl, ignoring her. “Mother never mentioned him being _here_.” She looked at Robb. “I heard he killed the Smalljon.”

Sansa winced. _Of course she did,_ thought Sansa. _T_ _hat would have been the first thing she heard in Winter Town._

Mother turned as pale as milk, just before falling into another coughing fit.

“Take my mother to the solar at once,” the king ordered Ser Rodrik, who was also gaping at the Hound in horror. “You go as well, Maester Luwin, and see to my mother’s cough. And you,” he said to Arya, pointing a finger in her face, “ _enough_. If you do not wish to greet your family, very well. A storm is approaching, and I will not have Bran and Rickon suffer the weather more than needed just so their sister can disrespect one of my guardsmen.”

“He killed Mycah!” Arya bit back, the wind matching the intensity of her shout. “He served Joffrey! He watched our father be beheaded and smiled! I saw him!”

“You weren’t there, you liar!” Sansa snapped, dropping the somber mummer’s act as soon as Mother was no longer beside the gate. “I was!”

Robb held up a hand directly in front of her face, forbidding her from speaking. That made Sansa so livid, she could have bit it right off. 

“I’ve killed men, Arya,” the King in the North said stoutly. “And my men have killed men on my order. Clegane was Joffrey’s sworn shield, hence he was sworn to obey his prince’s orders. He has proven his loyalty to House Stark more than once. Even Father would respect him for all that he has done.”

“Like killing the Smalljon?” Arya's eyes shifted back to the Hound, gleaming. “I bet you killed Theon, too.”

“That’s not true!” Rickon butted in. “Theon drank that nasty black stuff and then jumped off the wall!”

Arya did not listen to a word of that. Whoever this girl was in front of them, it was not their sister, but someone else. Someone. Anyone. No one. 

The girl set a hand on the pommel of her sword, the same sword their bastard half-brother had given to her before leaving Winterfell, then said to Clegane, “If you weren’t already on my list, you would be now.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, defensive. “What _list_?”

For the first time in two years, Arya Stark's eyes met hers, almost wickedly. “My list of people I’m going to kill.”

When the Hound broke his silence and snorted, Arya drew out her sword, eliciting a gasp from those still spectating in the gusty yard. A vehement impulse came over Sansa upon the threat, and although a white veil of snow fell in front of her, all she could see was red, scarlet, crimson like blood. Sansa was ready to wrap her hands around that thin blade and snatch it away, cutting her hands be damned. She was ready to take that sword and-

A low, threatening rumble pulled her away from her thoughts, and then a blur as black as night stole her vision. Before she could stumble away from the dark mass in front of her, the Hound was pulling her back with one muscled arm snug around her waist. 

“Gods be good,” Sansa breathed.

Rickon’s direwolf had jumped in between her and the sword, snarling and baring his fangs at the girl wielding it, mere feet away.

 _It's not me he is protecting,_ she realized, _but Sandor._

Another great blur flew past, this one grey as smoke. Robb’s wolf fell in beside Arya and matched his brother's stance, growling threateningly. His yellow eyes stood out amongst the flakes of snow like two bright flames. Bran’s wolf, Summer, had sprinted towards them, yet stood off to the side, unsure of which brother to follow.

“Grey Wind, to me!” Robb cried out, not like a king, but like a frightened boy. “Rickon, call him off!”

She looked over at her youngest brother, nonplussed. With his little fur cloak flowing behind him, Rickon stood with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed at Arya. His wolf emulated his demeanor and took on a meaner stance, opening his jaw as if he were about to rip out Grey Wind’s throat. 

Sansa watched the king place a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Rickon! Now!”

Their little brother rolled his eyes, then looked to where she and Sandor stood before mumbling, “Shaggy, to me.”

The massive black shadow snapped at Grey Wind just before swinging around and standing beside his young master.

“Grey Wind, out,” said Robb, grinding his teeth. “All of you bloody wolves, out!”

Summer was the first to scamper off and exit through the gate, visibly eager to distance himself from his quarreling brothers. Grey Wind took one step and then paused, staring over at Robb.

“Out!” he commanded. "Now!"

Grey Wind almost sighed, before running through the open tunnel. Only when the lean wolf's grey fur disappeared beyond the castle wall did Shaggydog leave Rickon’s side.

“Bloody wolves,” Robb Stark swore again. “Gods, what is happening?” He walked behind Bran and, without another word, pushed him towards the Great Keep. The second the king was no longer standing between them, Rickon scurried over to her side. 

_No, not my side,_ she knew, watching her little brother take the Hound’s left hand. _Sandor’s side._

Although the falling snow was almost blinding, Sansa made sure to study every detail of the girl in front her. Arya’s sword and scowl had both fallen, she observed, and her expression had become something akin to confusion, something resembling fear. 

Once the King in the North was no longer within hearing distance and bemused northmen and rivermen alike hastily exited the stormy yard, Sansa could hear amidst the sound of biting winter winds and wailing weirwood leaves the snarling laughter of Sandor Clegane. 

When Arya’s gaze fell to where the Hound was still holding her waist, Sansa looked her dead in the eye and felt her lips curl into a smile.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Mother was not coughing into the square of red silk, she was crying. And Mother cried for hours that afternoon. She yelled more than once, she even slapped Robb, and all over a lie. A lie she believed, as did everyone else. 

Everyone, except Arya.

It was not the death of Theon Greyjoy that had given Mother such grief, but learning that the Greatjon’s eldest son had almost stripped Sansa of her innocence, along with receiving the news of the heinous destruction of her husband’s tomb.

That was when Mother had struck Robb inside the solar. She would have never done such a thing in front of his men, but only her children and Maester Luwin had been present during the time. Bran had watched in horror, whereas Rickon only tittered. And, despite herself, Sansa had to cough as violently as Mother to mask her laugh.

Arya, on the other hand, had stood across the solar with her arms crossed, perpetually frowning.

“I warned you,” Mother had said afterward, so slowly that each word sounded like its own individual thought. “Those _Umbers_.”

It was no secret that their mother had little love for the men of House Umber. Brigands, she called them, and no better than rapists, as rumor had it they still kept the tradition of the First Night. When Mother had suggested to the king that he knight Clegane for the heroic deed, he said, “Clegane’s not ambitious like most men,” to which Arya had scoffed. “He means to serve - no more, no less. He was in the right place at the right moment. That’s all.”

Of late, Robb was so foolish that Sansa was beginning to think the North would be better off if their five year old brother wore the crown.

The conversation inside the solar lasted until late afternoon. Only after every matter had been discussed, from Theon’s fatal foolery to the misbehaving wolves to Sansa’s name day, did Mother finally allow Maester Luwin to examine her cough. Afterward, he took Robb aside and spoke to him quietly beside the hearth. The king’s expression grew melancholy at once, but all he did was give a nod. Robb never did tell them what Maester Luwin had said to him. And for that, Sansa resented him all the more. 

Although she did not see Sandor Clegane for the remainder of that day, Sansa carried a piece of him wherever she went, a reminder that had dried inside her smallclothes. Had she not known where he was, it would have been terrifying not seeing him for so long, given the recent arrival of several noble visitors. Thankfully, she did know where he was, having heard Robb summon him to the Great Hall for an assembly with his personal guard just before she had exited the solar. Sandor would be with the king until dusk. And afterward, he would come to guard her door all night.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d come inside again should she leave the door unbarred.

So, Sansa did just that, shamelessly, then climbed into bed nude and listened for those heavy, unhurried, ominous footsteps.

The sheets felt better this way, nestled against her every curve and crevice without the cumbersome barrier of a nightgown. Perhaps that was why she so often took off her gown as she slept - it was natural to sleep this way. It was _freeing_. Sansa never wanted to wear one again. 

As she waited, growing more and more drowsy, Sansa rested her head on the cool pillow and closed her eyes. Some minutes passed, and then some more, and then Sansa felt herself being tugged into a dream, just as heavy footsteps could be heard coming from outside the door.

 _Wait,_ she thought, _take me back. He’s here. He’s…_

Sansa was suddenly standing in a world of darkness, all alone inside an empty void. She had been here before, many times. This was where He came to her. The Stranger, her shadow. But Sansa was lucid enough to know who He was now. He was Sandor, though not truly. He was only the version of him that lived in her mind. Sansa knew it wasn’t Clegane's lips she was kissing, only her imagination of what they might feel like. It was why it had all felt so natural. All these months, she had been practicing for him, with _Him_. And how sweet it was, that even when she was asleep, Sansa could be with a version of him in her dreams. Even so, she would have sooner he come into her chambers again like he did that morning and wake her up from sleep. 

A dream, she supposed, was better than nothing at all.

Suddenly, her toes were hanging off an edge in that darkness. When she looked down, there was a pit beneath her, a bottomless pit that was somehow darker than pitch, with a cold swirling draft. It frightened her. Sansa gingerly took a step back, and then another, and then quickly turned around. 

In front of her, ten or so paces ahead, was a blood red door, and nothing else.

_Knock...knock...knock_

Something warm dripped along the inside of her thigh. When she looked down, a long stream of white fluid was coming from her sex. Sansa placed her fingers onto it, then tore them away at once - the fluid burned like a flame.

_Knock…...knock…...knock_

“Don’t.”

The familiar voice echoed in the darkness. She looked over to her right and squinted, and then her eyes grew wide. Sansa covered her breasts with one arm and placed her other hand over her maidenhair, taking caution not to touch the scalding fluid trickling down her leg. “Theon?”

Sansa could only see his face, his colorless face somehow illuminated in that everlasting darkness, his black hair falling heavily in front of his eyes.

“Don’t open it," he echoed.

“Leave me,” she said, more angry than afraid. “You’re dead.”

“You can’t help him,” Theon Greyjoy told her, his voice no longer solid with arrogance, but quivering with fear. “He won’t stop. He’ll kill everyone, for you.”

_Knock……...knock……...knock_

Sansa looked at the lonely red door, watching its vibrant color slowly fade as the seconds passed. “I must help him, Theon. I love him.”

“More than your family?”

_Knock………...knock………...knock_

“He would never harm my family,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

“Then where’s Lord Stark?”

“He had to destroy Father.” When she turned her head, Theon was standing only an inch away from her. Sansa startled, then observed the side of his head that was caved in from the fall. He smelled of beer and salt. “He had to, Theon. He had no other choice. My blood...my maiden’s blood…”

“Did he have to kill me?”

“You fell,” she lied. “You were drunk. And the Smalljon...he would have raped me bloody were it not for-”

_Knock…………...knock…………...knock_

Sansa looked at the door. It was almost gone, a mere glimmer of red, drifting off into that eternal void. 

“And what will Robb have done?” asked Theon. 

Her head snapped in his direction. Sansa blinked half a hundred times, watching as water dripped from his hair. “Robb?”

“And Jon. The bastard.”

“Jon’s not here, he’s at the Wall.” The next knocks were only a whisper. Sansa looked at the door, its distant silhouette soon to become a memory. “I need to go, Theon. I need to help him.”

“Needle,” said Theon, his voice sounding so strange, almost like a girl’s. “Where’s Needle?”

“What?” When Sansa looked over at him, he was gone, a puddle of water now resting where he stood. 

Sansa dropped her hands from her body and looked ahead. The door was gone, too. Before she could take a step forward, praying it was not too late, she was woken by the sound of her little sister screaming at the top of her lungs.

“ _I’ll fucking kill you_!”

Her eyes opened, facing the canopy overhead. The flames that stirred inside the hearth cast an array of shadows above her. One even looked like Him.

Outside, far away, a lone wolf howled in the still night.

Sansa jumped out of bed, stealing the furs off the mattress and wrapping them about her nakedness just before tearing the door wide open. 

Inside the corridor to her left, the Hound had both of Arya’s wrists in one hand and held them out in front of her. He could not have looked any more unfazed than he did at that moment. Still dressed like a peasant boy, Arya was flushed as she kicked at Sandor’s knees, achieving nothing aside from growing tired. It might have been amusing to watch had Sansa not resented her as much as Robb.

“What are you doing?” Sansa scolded. “Stop it!”

“Needle!” Arya shouted, never looking in her direction. “He took Needle!”

When Sandor looked over his shoulder at her, his face betrayed nothing, but his grey eyes darkened when they observed her state of undress.

 _He wouldn’t have,_ Sansa lied to herself. _He couldn’t…_

“He was with Robb all evening,” she reasoned out loud. “When would he have possibly taken your stupid sword?”

Arya continued to squirm and kick and shout. “He has it! I know he does!”

“It couldn’t have been Sandor!”

“It was him! I-” Arya became motionless for a split second, then turned her head an inch, eyes gleaming the same as they had in the yard. “ _Sandor_? Not Clegane? Not _Ser_? Not the Hound?” 

Sansa clutched the furs tighter around her nakedness, at a loss for words.

Down the corridor, a door smacked against stone. The Hound released Arya’s hands at once and took a step back.

“What, pray tell, is going on?” Mother chided, approaching with the red silk firmly in her hand. When her bloodshot eyes fell on Sansa’s bare shoulders, she gasped and submitted to another coughing fit. “Sansa...what in…Arya...”

“It’s nothing, Mother,” Arya answered, almost sweetly. That was more than just curious. _Why is she not accusing him in front of Mother?_ she wondered, knowing that could only mean she was up to no good. “Tell me, sister,” the girl went on, mischief blazing in her eyes, “what did you need to do to get the Hound to save you anyway? Show him your titties, or flash him your cunt?”

Mother just about reeled at that and stopped walking forward, balancing herself with one hand on the wall. “Arya...I’ll hear...no more of...this... _fighting_ ,” she coughed, wincing all the while, then pointed down the corridor. “Off to bed...both of you!”

Sansa looked at the Hound. He was so quiet and still and expressionless, one might have never known he was there. He was no different than the shadows lingering on the walls.

Arya gave her a knowing look before spinning on her heel and stomping off towards her bedchamber. Despite the distance that grew between them, Sansa heard the insult leave Arya's mouth all the same.

“ _Slut_.”

Sansa saw red again, blood red, like the door in her dream. Quickly, she looked to Mother; she would not have heard Arya, not over her incessant coughing, and was already retreating to her own chambers.

_Mother’s suffering._

When Sansa only stood there, feeling distressed and wondering what Maester Luwin had told the king about her condition, the Hound placed one coarse hand on her bare shoulder and nudged her inside her chambers.

“Pleasant dreams, princess,” said Sandor Clegane, his eyes black with hunger.

The sound of Arya’s door slamming shut startled her.

 _Did you take Needle?_ she wanted to ask, but all she could do was stare into his eyes and think of how her maiden’s blood had looked on his cock. The furs almost fell away from her skin as her breathing quickened, becoming flushed as if he were fucking her with his eyes. _Come in, please,_ she wanted to beg. He would never be able to do that, though, not while Arya was awake and liable to sneak out of her bedchamber at any given moment. Sansa gazed up at him a moment longer and considered standing on her toes to kiss him, but if someone passing through the corridor saw that, even a glimpse of their faces coming together, it would mean Sandor’s life. No, he'd never be able to come inside. Not ever.

That angered her, until she had an idea. An idea that stiffened her nipples as soon as she thought of it. An idea that no one besides the man standing in her doorway would be able to see.

Once her mother’s coughing was muffled behind the oaken door of her own bedchamber, Sansa took two slow steps back. The Hound watched her, unmoving, save for the burnt side of his mouth that twitched. Sansa stretched out her arms until the furs no longer covered her body, then let it fall to the floor, showing the Hound her titties and flashing him her cunt.

As those dark eyes stared, Sansa could feel the shade of his cock inside her and let out the softest moan.

The scrape of a boot on stone inside the long corridor ended their fun. But just before Sandor Clegane closed the door, he mouthed to her, “Good, little bird.”

It stole her breath. It made her moan again, louder. _Praise._ It was all that she needed. 

Sansa climbed back into bed and placed her head on the pillow, nude and uncovered and wet, never barring the door.


	7. Needle II

Lying on her side in that familiar dark void, with one leg straight and the other bent, Sansa stared ahead at the open red door and moaned once lips as coarse as blades found the curve of her neck.

 _“_ Tell me what you want,” the Stranger murmured in her ear, his voice rumbling thunder. “I’ll kill anyone for you.” 

She remembered who he was. He was _him_. “Sandor,” she breathed, reaching back with one hand to touch the face perpetually hidden underneath a black cowl. “Come inside and wake me up.” Warm, broken skin kissed her fingertips. Familiar. “I want to be with you.”

“No,” her shadow rumbled. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to wake up,” she said again, her desperate plea echoing inside the expanse. The red door slowly creaked open wider, but it was too dark for her to see inside the gaping entrance. It frightened her. “Wake me up, please! I don’t want to be here, I want to wake up!”

One hand as black as coal wrapped fully around her neck, choking her, not ungently. 

“ _Quiet!”_ he grizzled. “ _Be. Quiet_.”

Something warm trickled onto her thigh. Sansa knew not to touch it, vaguely remembering it had burned hotter than fire. 

Once the hand released her, Sansa warily looked over at her shadow. All she saw was a cowl, until her eyes caught movement and drifted down. Sansa watched as the Stranger lifted up his smoking black robe, gasping when his manhood came jutting out. It was as long and thick as she remembered Sandor’s to be, yet red as ripe new blood. As he took it in one of his hands, Sansa found herself arching her back so that her bare cheeks would press against him. 

“That’s it,” said the devil, satisfied now. “That’s my good girl.”

In sheer bliss, Sansa dropped her head onto her arm, humming with pleasure once the tip of his cock poked the firm skin between her holes. When he tilted it up and prodded the wrong one, Sansa stifled a squeal as best as she could and pushed it away with her hand.

“Not there!”

The Stranger’s low laugh was criminal, tinged with so much malice that her muscles tensed up. He placed a hand on her cheek. Sansa thought he meant to spank her, but all he said was, “Tell me where to put it.”

“I want it in my...” she felt shy again, as shy as a maid. Sansa closed her eyes, ignoring the red door and whatever lurked on the other side. “In...my…other...”

The rough fingers on her bottom dug into her flesh. “ _Say. It_.”

“I want it in my cunt.”

Her shadow growled, just like Sandor Clegane did in real life. If only this could be real life. If only she would wake up. 

“Very good,” the Stranger husked. He lifted up her arse cheek until both of her holes grew taut. When she whimpered, he hissed, “Quiet!” just before expelling a drawn out groan. “Oh, little bird, look at your pretty cunt. Your pretty, bloody cunt.”

Sansa was not sure if she heard that last part correctly, but she could not bother to ask. _He called me little bird,_ she thought. _He has never called me little bird, not in my dreams..._

His cock nudged her entrance, but she knew better and muffled her whimper into her arm. That satisfied him, she knew, listening as he growled and groped her breasts, pressing himself inside.

A tenderness was still present, but the pleasure gained from having such warmth fill her helped her ignore the pains, the stretching and stinging and cramping naught but whispers now.

Oh, it felt so real - the fullness, the large fingers pinching her nipples. And the sounds...their suppressed moans, the squelching of her sex each time his length went in and out, sounding like she was sucking him. Sansa’s hips matched his rhythm, her cheeks clapping against his torso with every smooth thrust.

“Tell me what you want,” the Stranger moaned.

“A dagger,” she answered pitifully, her lungs empty. “Your dagger.”

The firm grip on her throat was replaced by the familiar cold kiss of steel. Sansa opened her eyes and discovered not a dagger, but Needle. She mistakenly took a glance at the open red door, discovering the Stranger watching them from the entrance, surrounded by a thickening haze.

Sansa looked behind her and found scars glistening with sweat.

“Sandor…”

“Tell me,” Clegane rasped. “Tell me who to kill or I’ll kill them all.”

She turned around to face the door, climaxing. As a flesh colored hand clamped over her mouth and nose, Sansa shut her eyes and mumbled into his coarse palm, “Oh fuck, I love you!”

  
  


* * *

  
  


She awoke with a start at the sound of the King in the North’s cries. 

“Kennel the hounds, Farlen! The hunt is on the morrow!”

Sansa sat up so fast that her vision was obstructed by a black haze, much like the one in her dream. Her body ached, her stomach cramped, and her eyes were heavy, as if she had not slept at all. But as she surveyed her bedchamber in the soft morning light spilling in through the shutters, Sansa realized that she was all alone.

 _A dream, that’s all it was,_ she thought, licking her lips and tasting blood. Sansa fell back on the bed and covered herself in the furs, unable to remember having picked them up off the floor. _A vivid, vivid dream._

Sandor never did come to her, but what could she expect? _It would have been too risky_ , she knew. _If Arya were to find out, she would tell Robb at once. Sandor would be dead at once._ Sansa needed to think of another way to see him, a safer way. Not only for the intimacy she craved, but to help him - she needed to help him. 

As she lingered in bed with one leg stretched out and the other bent, she listened to the distant voices coming from the yard and mused on her dream. Most of it had already been forgotten, only bits and pieces remaining. An open red door, Sandor Clegane, and a thin blade caressing her throat. 

_Needle._

“No, Sandor couldn’t have taken it,” Sansa murmured to herself. “He didn’t...”

Sansa could not say why it bothered her so much, but the thought endured and festered worse than the smell of a burnt man’s corpse. Why did she have to dream about that stupid sword? How was her mind ever supposed to rest without knowing the truth? Sansa knew that she could not ask him, not without having him think she does not trust him. She would need to learn the truth of it on her own, as furtively as she could. 

She groaned in discomfort, becoming acutely aware of the aches down below. She might have never moved from her bed that morning had her maid not called out through the door.

“My princess, may I come in?”

Sansa mumbled her response from underneath the furs.

Her maid scurried in and said, “You did not lock your door, my princess.”

_Because I hoped the Hound would come inside._

“I forgot," she lied.

Sansa heard the shutters opening and then felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you well, Princess Sansa?”

“Draw me a bath,” Sansa requested, “as hot as you can make it.”

And so her maid did, while Sansa continued to fall in and out of sleep underneath the furs. More bits and pieces of her dream returned: an open door, a dark laugh, and ten words.

_‘Tell me who to kill or I’ll kill them all.’_

Her maid pulled the furs from her body and gasped. “Oh, I’ll...bring you clean sheets and a cloth at once, my princess.”

When Sansa rolled over, her thighs slid together. She glanced down and saw red - red on the sheets, red on her thighs, red dampening her maidenhair. 

_My moon blood._

Sansa found herself laughing, the aches and pains and even stranger dreams suddenly making sense. She then sighed with relief, having forgotten all about finding herself moon tea. And then, once those pleasant feelings subsided, Sansa cried, knowing it would be a week’s time before she could give herself to Sandor Clegane again.

The bath was scalding, yet still not hot enough. It did not hurt enough. As the fragrant water cleansed her skin of the blood, Sansa could think of nothing besides Needle, stupid Needle, and those ten words. 

_It was only a dream._

She dressed herself and braided her hair that morning, then made her way to break her fast in the Great Hall before the king would nag at her for being late again. Maester Luwin had just exited Mother’s chambers as she passed by and informed her that he had given her a drop of milk of the poppy. 

That was not surprising. Mother’s cough would not have allowed her to sleep, but when Sansa asked the maester how severe her condition was, he only smiled an artificial smile and said, “The milk of the poppy will help.”

 _Help what?_ she wondered, irate at the vague response. _Heal her, or kill her?_

She would learn the truth of that, one way or another. 

The smell of three northmen muddied the morning air a day late. At least Mother was asleep; she would not need to smell it. Sansa, however, no longer bothered to cover her nose. She was used to the scent now. If anything, she was beginning to like it. It reminded her of him.

Snow fell and dusted the yard, soft and quaint after yesterday's storm. Sansa heard her youngest brother’s breathless laughter and found him beside the stables being lifted onto the saddle of his filly by Sandor Clegane. She stopped outside the Great Hall and watched the two of them, fantasizing again.

The Hound met her stare and locked his eyes on hers. A thousand words were spoken between them, all in silence. When his mouth twitched, she could feel Needle against her throat, pressing deeper and deeper.

 _I’ll help you,_ she thought, giving him her sweetest smile. _I promise._

As soon as those grey eyes left her and returned to Rickon, Sansa turned on her heel, no longer caring about the King in the North’s gripes, and made for the Guard’s Hall.

This would be her only opportunity to put her mind to rest.

Sandor hardly ever slept, but she knew he would be returning to his bedchamber once he finished teaching Rickon, meaning she had less than an hour to confirm he did not take Arya’s sword. 

The corridors were silent upon entering the building, with only the occasional sound of soft snores as men who guarded the castle the night before found rest. Before she would encounter an inquisitive member of her household guard, Sansa quickly ascended the stone steps of the stair. Sandor’s bedchamber was on the third level and, luckily for her, the guard’s chambers could not be locked like the royal and guest chambers could. 

_Arya would have come by here last night_ _if the Hound were not guarding our corridor._

Even his door had an ominous air about it, she thought, as she pushed it open and closed it quietly behind her.

His small bedchamber was neat, not a thing out of place. The bed was made, the floor was clean, and the only thing on the small bedside table was one unlit tallow candle. Not a single ash sat inside the small hearth inside the room, though that did not surprise her. The chambers kept modestly warm, even without a fire. And Sandor only ever lit a fire when absolutely necessary. 

The lone window inside the room was cracked open, allowing a beam of soft white light to stretch across the middle of the bed. That light on that bed stood out like a beacon, pressing her to come forward. Even so, the space remained dusky, practically colorless, a thousand shades of grey. 

Sansa took a step forward and breathed in. His scent was strong inside the room, earthier than even the godswood. Taking another step, and then another, she stood beside the bed and bent over, threading her fingers through the fur blanket where the light bled onto them.

 _How sweet it would be to lay here beside you._ _To lay right here and feel you inside me._

She knew that she could not dawdle any longer. She came here to satisfy her curiosity, and she would.

Sansa lifted up his pillow first. 

Nothing. 

She then felt all around the furs, finding a reason to get on her hands and knees on top of his bed and arch her back.

Nothing.

Sansa crouched down and peered underneath the bed, squinting into the darkness. She reached out with her hand and felt all around, going so far as to crawl underneath to check every inch.

Nothing.

And why would there be anything? If Sandor _did_ take Needle, which Sansa highly doubted, why would he keep it underneath his bed of all places? Why would he keep it _here_ inside his unlocked bedchamber?

 _He didn’t take it,_ she told herself as she stood up and smoothed out her skirts. _Of course he didn’t take it. Arya probably misplaced it, knowing her._

Just as Sansa turned around and made to exit, she spotted something out of the corner of her eye; there was something amiss after all. Something so subtle, yet so glaringly obvious to her - another beacon. One crooked stone inside the hearth, hardly visible inside the grey space. She would have never thought twice about it, but something about it piqued her curiosity once again, luring her in with a haunting purr...

She knelt down beside the hearth, unable to ignore the peculiarity. It took a single tug and a shake for the stone to come loose and part from the hearth. A sword would have never fit in there, yet she reached inside the small recess all the same, a smaller, darker space.

Nothing.

A puff of air shot from her mouth.

_I’m losing my mind._

Relieved, Sansa turned the stone around to slip it back inside, until a light shade of grey caught her attention. Sansa lifted the stone to her eyes and inspected it. Only then did it occur to her how light the stone was in her hand, as weightless as her hairbrush, discovering that it had been hollowed out to fit something inside.

To _hide_ something inside.

Sansa pulled out the corner of fabric and watched it unfold before her. Her heart skipped a beat upon realizing what it was - a woman’s smallclothes. _My smallclothes_ , she knew. Yet as she caressed it between her fingers, the texture no longer felt like silk at all. It was stiff and stained and gave off a pungent smell. When Sansa set the stone down on the floor and used both of her hands to stretch it out, something fell into her lap. 

She felt herself blanch.

In between two fingers, Sansa picked up a long lock of auburn hair bound together by a thin black string. She would have never missed it, for her hair was so long and thick. Sansa let it slip through her fingers, a shiver running through her once the curl at the end tickled her palm. 

_When?_ she wondered. _How?_

A distant thud quashed her thoughts, and then another came, and then another. Footsteps. Heavy, unhurried, ominous footsteps.

Sansa shoved the Hound’s secrets back into the stone and forced it back inside the hearth. Her breathing had become erratic, her hands cold and clammy, but there was no escaping him, she knew, and found sanctuary underneath the bed. 

As soon as she crawled into the shadowed shelter and drew her knees up to her chest, a door flew open.

Sansa held her breath, certain her heart would give out.

The Hound was cursing to himself as he entered, slamming the door shut behind him. Sansa squeezed her eyes closed, unable to watch those two large feet as they stomped around. She heard the shutters close first, and then the soft sound of stone scraping against stone. Boots shook the ground beneath her, growing closer and closer, and then finally stilled.

Sansa quivered in the darkness, waiting for a hand to grab her at any moment and pull her out. She forced herself to open one eye, expecting to see a glowering face, but saw his boots being tossed onto the floor, followed by his sword in its scabbard.

The wooden frame groaned once his weight fell on the bed, then continued to wail as he moved around restlessly. A bead of sweat dripped down Sansa’s forehead, blazing hot, as if Sandor’s body heat was somehow seeping through the bed. 

_He’ll be asleep soon enough,_ Sansa reassured herself, holding her breath as long as she could and clutching her braid. _And then I’ll never mistrust him again. He never took Needle. He would have told me if he did…_

Once he finally became still, the Hound gave a long sigh. “Little bird, come sit on my cock.”

Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

Sansa looked ahead at the discarded sword on the ground. 

_How does he know I’m here?_ **_How_** _?_

Continuing to hide would not do her any good. It would only anger him, she knew. And besides, he was like to be angry with her for mistrusting him in the first place, no matter how fleetingly, in search of that stupid sword. Perhaps the Hound would even punish her for it, even if only gently. Perhaps he’d even use his dagger.

With her blood now hot and flowing like a river, Sansa made to crawl forward, until she heard Sandor Clegane say, “You ride my cock so well, little bird.”

Sansa covered her mouth to muffle her gasp, listening closely to the sound of skin grazing against skin. She knew that sound from the crypt and closed her eyes, picturing the Hound’s fist moving up and down his cock. Sandor grunted and shifted some more, the bed frame crying again. 

She tried to smile, knowing that he was pleasuring himself to the thought of her, but a different feeling came about. A dark feeling, bitter and spiteful. When Sandor grunted again, it occurred to her what it was.

 _Envy_. _I’m envious of his hand._

She carefully and quietly turned over to lay on her back, then frowned at the bottom of the bed. Every grunt was a reminder of what could have been; it should have been her up there drawing out his curses and moans and sharing the effort of making his bed frame weep. It would be days before that could be her, now that she was having her blood.

“Play with your titties while you ride my cock,” Sandor moaned above her. He took a long sniff, then said, as he slowly exhaled, “My little bird…”

Her envy began to fester into something else, a familiar feeling, yet deeper. It was not only arousal kindling the deep throbs between her legs, but something far more longing. It was more than a craving, it was a hunger, a need so dire that as more and more seconds passed without his touch, Sansa felt herself being driven mad. There was nothing she could do, though. She was trapped there, forced to listen to him pleasure himself instead of finding pleasure in her.

“Grab my balls,” he grumbled. 

Sansa closed her eyes that were brimming with tears, imagining him reaching down with one hand while the other stroked his shaft. 

_Envy._

It should be her up there. 

“Oh _fuck_. Good girl.”

The praise, the envy, the starvation - Sansa could not resist the growing urge. Without making a sound, she lifted up her skirts and slid one hand underneath the hem of her smallclothes. Pushing aside the cloth that collected her moon blood, Sansa placed two fingers on her throbbing bud, then circled and circled…

The bed whimpered. “Tell me you want me to fuck you from behind in the godswood while you’re praying.”

Sweat and tears rolled down her cheek, as the image of him taking her from behind under a canopy of red leaves made her feral with lust. Sansa held back a moan and slipped one finger inside her bleeding entrance. _Fuck me in the godswood from beind while I’m praying,_ she repeated to herself.

Sandor’s voice quivered when he said, “Tell me you want my cock in your arse.”

She almost gasped. The words sparked something in her, a memory of some sort, but she could not recall what it was. Sansa did not think she wanted that, but she repeated the words all the same. Because they were his words, and he would like that. 

_I want your cock in my arse,_ Sansa told him in silence, as she moved two fingers in and out of her sex.

As if he heard her, a string of curses fell from his lips. “Do you want me to kill for you, little bird?” 

Sansa made to echo the words, but stopped herself just in time. 

_I can’t say that,_ she knew. _I want him to be better, for no one’s sake besides his own._

So, she refused. Sansa needed to help him. She needed to keep him safe. If he were ever caught, Robb would never give him the option of being sent to the Wall, not once he learned that Sandor killed Theon and the Smalljon for her. Not once he learned that he had taken her maidenhead on Father and bludgeoned him afterward. Not once he learned that she was in love with him.

“I’ll kill anyone for you,” Sandor said, his voice strained and broken. “I’ll kill everyone.” 

_‘He won’t stop,’_ she suddenly remembered Theon’s warning in her nightmare. _‘He’ll kill everyone, for you.’_

“ _Tell me_ ,” she heard the Stranger husk, as if he were right in her ear. “Tell me you want me to kill the king.”

Sansa’s fingers stopped, her sex clamping around her fingertips. The space underneath the bed became as dense as a tomb, colder than the crypt beneath Winterfell. 

She stared above in horror.

“Tell me!” he rasped. “Tell me you want me to kill the fucking king!”

 _Stannis,_ she thought, as her mouth quivered. _He means Stannis._

Above her, the Hound was coming undone. 

He did not curse, not like he did when he peaked with her. Instead, a grizzly, cruel moan disturbed the small space, the bed frame shrieking and bawling. Sansa could feel the vibration in the stone beneath her, and then again inside her throat, dictating the rhythm of her heart and pulse, changing everything. 

What he said changed everything. 

Sansa was rooted there in her cramped tomb for what felt like the better part of an hour, laying there, staring blankly ahead, thinking of everything, thinking of nothing, not blinking, not breathing, yet somehow living. Even once he was snoring Sansa could not find the will or the way to move, not until she remembered where she was supposed to be. _Robb will come looking for me. And Arya…_

That was enough to get her to remove her hand from her sex. She wiped it clean on her cloak, thankful she chose the black over the ivory, and rolled onto her belly. 

Crawling out from underneath Sandor Clegane’s bed was the single most terrifying thing she had ever done, worse than anything she had been made to do in King’s Landing, worse than lying to Robb’s face in front of his men. She held her breath and dug her nails into the ground as she inched forward, praying he would not wake, but the old gods would not hear her now. They might never listen to her again after all she has done. 

The bed frame whined, just as Sansa’s head poked out from underneath. She winced, expecting to hear a gruff “Little bird” or feel a large hand wrap around her throat, but the snoring resumed soon after. Sansa let out a slow relief sigh and continued to slink forward.

She made it out of her tomb and to her feet, all without a sound. Sansa did not know whether it was her moon blood or her arousal fluids flowing heavily from her as she turned around and peered down at the bed.

Even with the shutters closed and the light scarcer than it had been inside the crypt, Sansa could make out the sight before her in this world of grey. Sandor slept with her smallclothes resting on the head of his cock, his one hand on top of the silk, while the other held the lock of her hair to his chest. She had seen him like this many times when they traveled together after leaving King’s Landing. There was such a softness to him when he slept, such beauty, such...innocence.

A darker shape beside her caught her attention, developing a voice and whispering to her. She looked to her right and found his sheathed dagger on the bedside table. It was like looking upon all the gold in the world, a treasure placed no more than a foot away. She recalled how the leather grip felt in her hand, how the steel tasted when it brushed her tongue, how the edge felt nipping at her neck… 

She wanted it, almost as much as she wanted him. And she was going to take it. 

Slowly and steadily, Sansa reached out and stole the weapon from the table. She knew she would need to think of some excuse should he ask her about it. Perhaps she would blame Arya. It would be like divine justice, considering how she accused Sandor of stealing Needle. It was what she deserved.

Holding his dagger, Sansa looked down at the sleeping man once more.

_‘Tell me you want me to kill the fucking king!’_

Sansa clutched the treasure to her breast and stared at the Hound’s throat. 

_Stannis._

Sansa loosened the laces on her bodice just enough to tuck the dagger inside her shift, then turned around and exited the bedchamber, quiet as a shadow.

_You were talking about Stannis._

* * *

  
  


The rustling leaves on the heart tree lamented as she exited the Guard's Hall. 

Sansa wrapped her arms around her waist to keep the dagger from falling out.

 _Be quiet!_ she wanted to scream to the old gods, as she made haste to break her fast. _L_ _eave me alone!_

Although it felt like she had spent a lifetime inside Sandor Clegane’s bedchamber, it had not been longer than half an hour. She did not speak a word to her siblings upon entering the Great Hall, aside from sweet Rickon. And the only reason she spoke to him was because his hands were filthy with dirt and needed to be cleaned. 

Robb hammered her with a thousand questions the moment she arrived, incensed by her lateness...again. And, as if that were not enough, he informed her that he would be inviting the visiting lords from the Riverlands to sup with them that evening, including a certain young man of nine-and-ten named Lucas Blackwood. 

_Do that,_ thought Sansa, _and you might as well kill him yourself._

She wondered if it was mother’s condition, the extent of which only he and the maester knew about, that was making him so irritable. Or perhaps he never managed to sleep at all last night after burning the three northmen he had decapitated the day prior. Sansa was starting to wonder how long a man could go without sleep before losing his mind.

It was difficult to sit down with the bulky dagger inside her dress, though she did not dare waste any more time hiding it inside her chambers. Sansa never did remove her cloak upon entering, fearing the bulge on the side of her ribs would be conspicuous (not that wearing a cloak to break her fast was any less suspicious). 

While she forced herself to eat, Arya had no shame watching her, unblinking, from the far end of the table. Although Arya remained silent, Sansa noticed there was a hint of humor in her eyes. 

_I hope you never find your stupid sword again,_ Sansa thought, as she ripped apart a piece of bread. _I wish Sandor did take it._

As soon as she ate enough to the king’s liking, she returned to her chambers at once and barred the door. She could not have undressed any faster, the leather sheath now warm and damp with sweat once she pulled it out. From there, it was all instinct, like breathing. She pulled the dagger from its scabbard and let it fall to the floor, the sound of steel on leather stiffening her nipples. Sansa turned it in her hand and watched the blade glitter in the morning light. She knew what she wanted to do, beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

Sansa took the dagger with her to bed, naked as her nameday.

Her sheets were crisp and clean, but they would not be that way for much longer. Sansa fell back against the pillows and bent her legs at the knees. Holding the flat of the blade between two fingers, she opened her legs and gently guided the smooth round pommel onto her patch of maidenhair, shivering upon the first touch. 

_Dangerous._ _This is so dangerous._

Ever the more enticed, Sansa slowly slid the pommel down, gasping once the warm metal pecked her bud. She circled it there for a moment and moaned, stopping once she felt herself close to climaxing. She wasn’t ready for that, not yet, and moved it down, letting the safe end of Sandor's dagger spread open her lips. It slipped once it touched her entrance, slick with blood. Perhaps having her moon blood was not as awful as she thought; she could use it to her benefit.

Using what her body had given her, Sansa pushed the smooth pommel inside.

It would have been seamless, her sex being so wet, had her body not tensed up. Her walls clamped around the one inch that was inside, opening and closing, unsure. 

_No, it’s not Sandor. But it is his dagger_. 

The same dagger he used to cut the Smalljon’s throat. The same blade that had taken the lives of other men. Many other men. _So dangerous,_ thought Sansa, pushing it in further. And then further. Further and further, until its meager five inches were buried inside her and the hilt bumped against her mound.

As her sex tightened around the leather handle, she closed her eyes and imagined Sandor telling her that she was taking his dagger so well. He would have been proud of her. He would have given her praise.

“I love feeling you inside me,” Sansa whispered, feeling bashful afterward. He had spoken vulgarly so easily when he pleasured himself. Why did it have to be so hard for her? She tried again, keeping the handle in place when she felt her sex pushing it out, and said, “I want you to...fuck my cunt,” knowing he would love to hear her say that. “I want you to fuck my cunt... _bloody_.”

Sansa looked down as she slowly withdrew the handle from its new sheath - a sheath of flesh. The leather glistened wet with her blood. Her jaw became slack, in awe of the beauty between her thighs, almost as beautiful as Sandor’s cock inside the crypt.

Once the pommel became visible, the smooth ball at the end now gleaming red, Sansa said, “Fuck me, Sandor.” She didn’t blush that time, but instead fell back against the pillows and allowed the handle to fill her again.

Sansa mimicked what she saw the Hound do with his cock, pushing and pulling the dagger in and out. Even though it was much smaller than him, less than half his length and its girth no wider than two of her fingers, Sansa could feel her climax blossoming and rocked her hips in a steady rhythm. 

“Oh gods, yes. Fuck me,” she said brazenly, so natural now. “Faster, faster...play with my titties...oh!” Sansa shrieked when she felt something as cold as ice drip along the inside of her finger, but even then she wouldn’t stop. She was so close. Sansa made sure to let him know. “I’m about to come, Sandor. Please, let me come.” 

_‘Come, little bird,’_ he would say. As the handle went in and out and in and out, she imagined him grabbing her throat, fucking her bloody, and saying, _‘Come on my cock if you want me to kill the king.’_

Sansa wallowed in her pleasure, writhing and bucking, whimpering out loud. It lasted for minutes, the release, coming to those words, those cruel, dark words.

 _Stannis. He’s talking about...Stannis._

Now motionless, she laid there, still holding the dagger in place, and stared at the canopy above her until her eyes gradually closed. 

A crinkling sound woke her up. Sansa lifted her head and watched a slip of paper being slid underneath her door. 

She knew it wasn’t Sandor. He would have knocked or tried to barge in. And Robb, he would have called her name before attempting to enter.

No, there was only one person who would slip a message underneath her door.

_Arya._

Her sex mourned the loss of the dagger as she pulled that last inch out. Sansa set her treasure on the furs and then held her hand up to her face. There was more blood visible on her right hand than there was skin, her middle finger slashed straight down the middle. Sansa jumped from the bed and grabbed a clean cloth off her vanity. Only then did she feel the pain, as she snugly wrapped her wound to stop the bleeding. How would she explain that to Sandor when his dagger is missing? She held her other hand to her mouth and swallowed the lump in her throat.

_What have I done?_

The letter by the door called out to her, much like stone inside the hearth and the dagger on Sandor’s table, except the letter did not purr or whisper, it screamed.

Sansa approached with hesitant steps, a trail of blood tickling the inside of her thigh. She knelt down beside the door and took the stupid message, then unfolded it with both hands as best as she could, staining the paper with fresh blood.

Ten words made the world turn crimson red.

_The brothel in Winter Town._

_His whore’s name is Larra._


	8. Whore

Breath quivering with her every step, puffs of warm air clouding in front of her, the snow beneath her feet crunching like frail bones… 

_Larra._

The treasure hidden away beneath her shift burned like coal against her skin. Sansa had not bothered to place it back inside its sheath nor wipe her blood from the handle before dressing herself and slipping it back inside. She could not say why she needed to take it. The leather sheath found a place to hide at the bottom of her chest inside her chambers, yet when she tried to place the dagger in it too, it would not go. It cried out to her, like a babe crying out for its mother. So she took it with her and carried it bare on the right side of her ribs with the point facing up, her hip kissing the pommel every other sway. It _was_ a treasure, and heavier than all the gold in the world. 

_His whore’s name is Larra._

Sansa knew from word of mouth that Sandor had frequented brothels in King’s Landing, but she was only a girl then and her feelings for him were not what they were today. When did he find the time to enjoy the company of a whore when he was guarding her? How could he utter that he loved her when he sought the intimacy of a whore as recent as a year ago?

 _He never confessed his love for me,_ Sansa realized. _Only I have confessed my love for him._

It sickened her to think that there was a time, multiple times, when she would be sleeping soundly in her bed at night and Sandor would be touching and holding and...fucking...another woman. 

_The brothel in Winter Town._

_His whore’s name is Larra._

She had read the note over a hundred times, looking for a lie somewhere between those ten antagonizing words. But it was a truth, she knew; there were no lies. Sansa knew his past, his tendencies, and more than that, she knew how conniving Arya was. She wanted her to hurt, and only a grim truth could do that. Arya wanted her to hate the Hound as much as she did. 

_Did_ she hate him? No, she loved him. And it was her love for him that heedlessly brought her to Winter Town.

With a dagger hugging her ribs and a dagger poking her lungs each time she took a breath, Sansa kept her head down and strolled through the town with her braid hidden inside the hood of her black cloak.

Winter Town grew busier everyday, as northmen from all around left their farms and villages upon the end of the summer season. Soon the town would be home to some fifteen thousand men and women and children. She bumped into several people on her way across the town, some even cursed, not knowing who she was. It did not matter how many curses she heard, nor how many times she tripped and stumbled, her body shaking, her treasure burning. Nothing could stop her from handling the situation of Sandor’s whore. And she would handle it, one way or another.

The brothel was secluded from the busier part of town, giving its frequenters a measure of privacy. One of those frequenters being Sandor Clegane. It stood before her, west of the town, a two story building of grey, undressed stone. Outside the entrance was an ornate lamp with red glass. Sansa made for the steps leading to the front door, then paused. As impulsive as she was, she couldn’t stroll in without a plan and make a scene. What would Robb say to her then? Instead, she made her way to the side of the building and stopped beside an open window on the first floor. The sounds of women chattering were loud, and then softer sounds of moans came from an open window on the second floor.

She waited there for a moment and listened, becoming aroused by the moaning, despite herself, and then growing anxious the longer she listened to the women talking to one another like sisters. The longer she stood there, the more she found herself contemplating why she had come. 

She crossed her arms and traced the dagger on her right side. 

_What am I doing?_

It was reckless and impulsive. Sansa was being driven by the same feeling that drove Sandor to kill Theon and the Smalljon - envy. Or was it something deeper than that? Something stronger and darker? 

More moans, more laughs, more seconds passed. What was she to do? What was she to say? What _could_ she say? Whores were no different than smiths and seamstresses. They provided a service for a fee, and that was that. It was a transaction. But any transaction that involved a woman making Sandor Clegane come could not be forgiven. Sansa would sooner set the building on fire than forgive.

A long sigh of exertion coming from the window stole her attention. “Rivermen know how to fuck. I haven’t had a southron cock since King Robert visited last.”

“It’s all the same,” she heard another whore say wistfully. “So long as there's coin at the end, I don’t care where his cock’s from.”

“That’s because you prefer northern cock.”

“No, that’s because I prefer cunt.” 

Several women laughed at that, their giggles varying from pretty to strange. 

“I’m waiting for the day the king invites the Dornish to the North. I hear when it comes to buying whores, their coin purses are the biggest in Westeros. And their cocks.”

“Can’t be bigger than Lord Umber’s,” a woman with a husky voice chimed in. “The father, not that dead, rapist son of his. Last we tumbled, I couldn’t walk straight for a week!”

The whores fell into another fit of giggles. Sansa might have even smiled at the crude gossip had the following remark not sent her into a frenzy of rage.

“I say the dog’s is bigger.”

The dagger burned hotter, searing. Sansa knew at once.

_Larra._

“None of us would know, he’s only ever asked for you. What happened to him, anyhow?”

“Probably found himself a little wife,” Clegane’s whore sighed. “It was nice while it lasted. Ugly as he was, I never had to talk to him. Sometimes he’d even pay me a silver just to suck his cock.”

Sansa bit her tongue to keep from screaming, but the taste of her blood only egged her on.

Another whore scoffed. “Well then, since you’ve been doing less work than the rest of us, I say you take out the blankets this morning.”

“Not me! Not with those wolves howling in the woods.”

“I haven’t heard one howl since last night.”

“You wouldn’t have over m’lord’s own howling,” a girl who sounded no older than Arya chuckled.

“Go on, Larra. Maybe you’ll find your dog sniffing around out there and you can suck his big old cock for a silver.”

As the brothel exploded into laughter, Sansa pressed herself against the stone and closed her eyes, breathing through pursed lips.

She could see red, even then. A whole world of it behind her eyelids.

As she clenched her right fist, Sansa could feel her blood soaking the fur that was lined inside her glove, disrupting the wound she sustained from pleasuring herself with the Hound’s dagger. While the whores returned to their gossip and chatter, she heard the sound of a door opening and closing, coming from around the corner. As furtively as she could manage, Sansa minced her way towards the rear side of the brothel while her treasure grew hotter with her every step. 

Peeking around the grey stone, Sansa watched as a woman garbed in a heavy brown cloak carried a bundle of furs towards a thicket of oak trees to the east. Although no plan had been conjured, Sansa followed all the same, not even bothering to look over her shoulder before allowing her feet to carry her in the same direction. 

She wasn’t breathing, only edging closer and watching, as if on the hunt. The whore slung the blankets over a low hanging branch no more than twenty feet away, unaware. Sansa couldn’t see her likeness, not until a small breeze tore off her hood and unveiled wavy shoulder-length hair a single shade darker than hers. 

Sansa wanted her gone. Now.

“Larra.”

She turned her head and furrowed her brow. “Yes? Who are you?”

The whore was older than her, a woman grown, between twenty and thirty, if Sansa had to guess. She was not as slim as her, nor was she quite as tall. And although her hair was similar to hers in color, it did not hold a shine. Sansa continued to walk up to her, mindlessly, and discovered the woman had round hazel eyes. They were pretty. _She_ was pretty.

Staring daggers at the whore, Sansa solemnly removed her hood and draped her braid over one shoulder.

Those pretty hazel eyes grew twice as large. Larra dropped the remaining furs onto the snow and gave a pitiful curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“I’m a princess, not a queen,” Sansa hissed. The ice in her voice reminded her of Cersei Lannister. She took a deep breath, resisting the urge to pull out the dagger itching at her side.

Larra lowered her eyes to the ground, silent.

The blood inside her glove squelched when she made a tight fist. “I want you gone,” Sansa said bluntly, but it was not her speaking, not truly. It was the treasure at her side. She could feel it pressing into her, dictating her words, expression, and posture. Sansa rolled back her shoulders and stood an inch taller. “I want you to leave - today.”

The whore looked all around, but the only company they had were the trees standing sentinel beside them. “ _Leave_ , Your Grace?”

“Are you truly so stupid? That’s not how you address me!”

Larra stared at her for a moment, visibly disorientated. “I beg your pardon, my princess...but leave to where?”

“I don’t care where you go, but you _will_ leave the North.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “But I...I have nowhere else to go.”

Sansa felt a sudden sting of guilt, until she looked at the whore’s hand and imagined it wrapped around Sandor’s cock. “Do you know how to ride a horse?” she questioned. Before Larra could so much as open her mouth, Sansa said, “Of course you don’t, you’re accustomed to a different sort of mount. I suppose you’ll have to walk, then.”

The whore’s hand fell, unveiling her mouth agape. Sandor’s cock had been in that mouth, she knew, more than once. Sansa folded her arms and caressed the bulge of the blade inside her dress with her fingers.

“ _Walk_?” asked his whore, incredulous.

“Or find a man with a horse. You can pay him with all the silver you earned.”

Larra’s brows pulled together. “Is this because of Lord Theon?”

“Oh, him too?” Sansa found herself giggling with resentment, her stomach clenching with the force of her restraint. “No, not him.”

“If you tell me who, I’ll never-”

“Suck his cock again?”

Larra’s face fell, hazel eyes staring at her as if she was the Stranger himself. “Gods, you don’t mean…you and...”

A massive shadow loomed out of the trees, and then two large hands took either side of the whore’s head.

Sansa watched, aghast. “Sandor!”

Before the whore could manage a single scream, Sandor gave one quick twist of his hands, then let her lifeless body fall to the ground.

Sansa had been right. The sound of a bone snapping sounded no different than snow crunching beneath her feet. She warily lifted her eyes to the whore’s killer.

The Hound glared at her with his teeth visibly clenched. “You busy little bird.”

The dagger at her side screamed.

_He knows._

Sansa turned for the trees and ran. 

She had never known such fear, nor such thrill. Each time her feet hit the ground, Sansa felt her bud tingle between her thighs. Had the Hound not grabbed her arm and yanked her around within seconds, she might have come like that. Sansa might have found her peak whilst running like prey. 

“What were you thinking?” Sandor Clegane fumed. He took her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. They were dark and piercing, more vicious than a predator’s. “She would have told the bloody king!”

“Let go of me!” Sansa wriggled and squirmed, not that it would do her any good. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”

Sandor stared at her as if she were engulfed in flames. “Don’t touch you again? Why? Because of a buggering _whore_?”

“You laid with her,” she said, sobbing now, but the words did not do her pain justice.

The hand on her chin squeezed. It even hurt. “Six bloody months ago!”

She made a fist with both hands and hit his chest. “You _fucked_ her!”

“It might have been her that I was fucking, but it was you I was thinking of! _YOU_!”

“So if I were to lay with a man who resembles you, would that make it better?” she blurted, tears of sorrow and outrage streaming down her face. “Perhaps I should have let the Smalljon fuck me after all.”

The world drew to a sudden halt. The snow falling through the trees seemed to freeze just then, hanging in the air along with the bitter words. They were suspended there, never to be unsaid, never to be forgotten, staring them both in the face. She looked through them and at Sandor, the hand on her chin tougher than Valyrian steel.

A darkness washed over him, and a wicked, terrible thing lurked in his eyes. He was so still in that moment, his face almost meditative, that Sansa’s jaw quivered in his grip just by looking at him. Her fear progressed into terror. Sansa wondered if this was how Theon saw him just before falling from the battlements. She wondered if Jon Umber saw this same black expression just before a blade opened up his throat, the same blade currently gnawing at her ribs.

Those fiendish eyes left her at the sound of a branch breaking. 

“Take her,” Clegane ordered, gesturing with his head towards the dead whore.

Unable to turn her head, Sansa watched out of the corner of her eye as another black shadow appeared in the snow. _Shaggydog._ He was alone, his brothers nowhere to be seen or heard. Rickon’s wolf sniffed Larra’s dead body before picking her up by her broken neck, then swiftly carried her body towards the wolfswood that lay to the west.

His eyes returned to her. “Now, for you.”

She made to beg for her life, but the words would not come. _This is only a dream_ , she told herself, unable to believe a word. _This is only a nightmare_. In one fluid motion, Sandor tossed her over his shoulder and carried her deeper inside of the grove, away from Winter Town.

Her pulse hammered inside her head, deafening her of all other sounds. _He’s going to kill me,_ she knew, unable to break free. _For stealing the dagger, for what I’ve done, for what I’ve said, for what I heard him say…_ The cut on her finger beat like a second heart inside her bloody glove, burning like wildfire. When Sansa tried to twist in his grip, his arm squeezed until his muscle dug into her left side. She almost couldn’t breathe with her lungs so compressed. She almost liked it.

Further they went, passing a grove of ironwoods that spelled fatal danger. He was taking her far enough away so that her screams wouldn’t be heard, she knew. Would Grey Wind come to help her? Would Summer? Where were they? Or would it be her corpse that Shaggydog would carry away next?

“Sandor...I’m sorry,” she finally uttered, weeping frantically. “Put me down... _please_.”

To her surprise, he did. The Hound set her down on her feet just beside a soldier pine with bare, low hanging branches dusted with snow. She stumbled back against its trunk and watched in horror as Sandor pulled out a dagger from his belt. A different dagger, longer, thicker, with a square handle made of dark polished wood instead of leather.

Her sex throbbed, longing.

“Turn around,” Clegane ordered.

“N-no.”

He tossed the dagger into the air and caught it in his hand, never looking. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She tried to take a step back, but the sole of her boot hit the tree; there was nowhere to go. Hopeless, she sobbed. “You’re scaring me.”

“Scaring you, am I?” Clegane laughed, then took one step forward and pressed the blade to her throat. As terrified as she was for her life to end, she could not stifle the moan. “ _Turn. Around_.”

“Don’t kill me,” she stammered, her voice softer than the falling snow. “I’m...sorry for...for taking...”

He interrupted her by kissing her lips, so gently it was more terrifying than if he had tried to chew her mouth off. “I’m not going to kill you,” he whispered. “I’m going to fuck you.”

Sansa kissed him back, and then again with her tongue. “With your dagger?” she asked hopefully.

Sandor pulled away from her mouth, grinning. “My dagger? Now how did a little bird like you think of that?”

Her heart froze, along with the world. 

_He doesn’t know it was me who took it,_ she realized, as his hand cupped her hip inches below where it was concealed. _He doesn’t know what I did with it. He doesn’t know what I heard him say…_

Sansa stared into eyes black with lust.

_‘Tell me you want me to kill the fucking king!’_

When she did not answer, he turned her around and pressed her to the uneven ground. Arms limp and weak, Sansa could not prop herself up on all fours. Instead, she fell forward while keeping her bottom lifted as best as she could, placing her forehead on her arms that were crossed in front of her. Snow melted into her hose and sleeves, and the weapon she kept hidden slid down in her armpit, poking her skin. She would have prayed for him not to see it, but the old gods would not save her now. Sansa had told them to leave her alone, and they did.

As her cloak and skirts were being tossed over her head, Sansa said, in her smallest voice, “W-wait...my moon blood…”

The Hound only laughed, and then dug his fingers inside the hems of her hose and smallclothes and yanked them down to her knees.

The heat left her body in wafts of smoke, the threshold of winter nipping at her exposed skin. “Someone will see us, Sandor,” she shivered. 

Cool square metal trailed from the small of her back down to her entrance. “If someone sees us, he’ll kill them.”

Arching her back with the dangerous touch, Sansa lifted her head and observed a black figure lurking between two trees. She nearly gasped, thinking it was the Stranger, but it was only Shaggydog. The wolf sat there and watched them with his bright green eyes, as fresh blood dripped from his mouth and stained the snow beneath him. 

She looked away once she felt the Hound press the thicker square pommel inside her sex, seamless with her fluids, but only far enough to tease. 

“Now, little bird, I want you to tell me what you told me over there.”

“N-no, I won’t,” Sansa whimpered with impatience.

The answer pleased him, she knew, for he blessed her with another inch. Her walls grabbed onto it greedily, adjusting quickly to the four smooth edges.

“And why not?” the Hound questioned.

“Because I didn’t mean it,” she said, pushing herself back until she took in another inch. “Ohhh gods...I didn’t mean it, Sandor. I didn’t mean it.”

“Because you only want me,” he said darkly, moving the handle in and out; it wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, yes...”

The dagger stilled. “ _Say it_.”

“I only want you.”

When he spanked her, she squealed, and a bird rustled in the trees. “ _Again._ ”

“I only want you.”

He spanked her harder, so hard her scream caught in her throat. “Again, with my name.”

“I only want you, Sandor,” she cried. “Only you.”

“Good, little bird. You only want me. You’ll only have me. You’ll only know _me_.”

He fucked her then, truly, thrusting the handle in and out of her as quickly as he would if it were his cock. It felt better than it had moments ago when Sansa pleasured herself with the dagger she had stolen, _far_ better. Sandor did not just pull in and out like she had, but he angled it up and down and left and right, allowing the wooden edges to knead her walls. When it tipped forward towards her belly, something happened. The square pommel brushed a nerve, a deep, hidden nerve, so sensitive to the touch that it made her whole body shudder.

A cruel laugh came from behind her, a devil in broad daylight. He angled the pommel forward again and fucked her slowly. “Does that make you want to come, little bird?”

It felt as if a thousand little needles were softly pricking her lips, so numb, so weak, but she had to say the words. “It makes me want to come, Sandor. I want to _come_.”

Hatefully, Sandor pulled the dagger from her sex, leaving her empty, wet, and bloody.

Sansa gave a groan of displeasure against her arm, until the pommel trailed upward and found the rim of her other hole. The memory returned to her then, all but slapping her in the face. It was a memory from her dream, the Stranger nudging her with his cock… 

Gasping sharply, Sansa pulled away. “I can’t.”

The Hound grabbed her braid and yanked her into position. Her neck craned back so far that she saw his mouth twitch when he said, “You can.”

He hawked a gob of warm spit directly onto her asshole. The pommel slick from her sex joined and began to press inside, not hasty. 

Sansa’s eyes squeezed shut. “ _Sandor_ …”

After releasing her braid, he paused for a moment. “Tell me to stop, little bird.”

That took her aback, again. It was what he said to her inside the crypt, just before taking her maidenhead. 

_No, I will not._ Sansa pressed her forehead against her arms and breathed in deeply through her nose. _I will do this. I_ **_can_ ** _do this for him._

A bird fluttered overhead in the passing silence, and then Sandor resumed. 

Her breath hitched in her throat when the first inch of steel slid inside and made it past her tight ring. She could scarcely imagine what it would feel like without her fluids oiling her up. Even then there was pain, a pinch that made her shriek and bite down into her arm. But there was something else too, something that sent an icy finger down her spine as she took more and more of the wooden handle. The Hound spat on it twice more, while gently moving the dagger in and out. Her muscles were tense, every last one of them, but the heavenly words filling her ears helped her find comfort.

“That’s my perfect little bird,” Sandor growled. “Your little arse looks so pretty swallowing my dagger.”

“I like it,” she told him, feeling the blade of the one dagger dig into her armpit as the handle of the other dug into her ass. It was becoming easier now, natural even, and the more he spat, the more pleasurable it became. Soon, all six inches of polished wood was inside her. She was so proud of herself, so proud of her body. It was so pleasant, too - more than pleasant. Sansa swayed her hips a little, moaning, and said, “I _love_ it.”

A guttural growl escaped him. “But you’d like my cock better.”

Repeating came easy to her now, no matter the words. “I’d like your cock better, Sandor.”

“ _Fuck_.”

The dagger fell to the earth just beside her face, warm and bloody, and melted the snow beneath it. It was beautiful. She wanted to reach out and grab it, but her arms were all but frozen together. Not long after, Sandor stuck two fingers inside her sex. Sansa cried out with pleasure, feeling him scoop out her fluids and rub them all around the perimeter of her rear entrance. Just after she listened to him spit and groan, he took her hip with one ungloved hand and guided the head of his cock to where his spare dagger had just exited. 

Sansa braced herself, but the word “stop” would never pass her lips. She would take pain, a little or a lot, so long as she could hear his praise. She would suffer any amount of discomfort so long as she could satisfy him. Sansa wanted to be the only one to satisfy him.

It was just as it felt before losing her maidenhead - his cock would not fit. But the prevalence of their fluids helped the head of his cock pry open her hole. He was so much bigger than the dagger. Sansa instinctively tried to run away from him, but he pulled her back once again, this time by her cloak, and started over. 

Sansa bit into her arm again, sweating, the dagger inside her dress now scraping her armpit. As slowly as he was sliding inside, as wet as she was, the pressure was overwhelming. Sobbing quietly, breathing raggedly, Sansa was ever the more determined to see this through, to not pull away, to find the pleasure she eventually felt with the dagger. It would come, she knew, and it would come once he began to speak.

“So fucking tight.” A bass rumble filled the air, almost sickly, contrasting his sweet words. “Such a good little bird, letting me put my cock in your arse.”

She could only hum a response, in burning bliss, loosening once Sandor developed a rhythm, one that was much slower than when he moved inside her sex. His moans came first, which prompted her own, filling the air around them like incense.

He pulled out, all the way out, then said, “You’re _mine_. _All_ of you.”

“I’m yours,” Sansa sniffled. “All of me.”

More spit coated her entrance just before he slid back inside, quicker that time, and easier. When he moaned louder, Sansa smiled. She was pleasing him, satisfying him, listening to his endless praise. The discomfort was drifting, her muscles relaxing, but she could not stifle her sharp squeal when he bent forward and buried every inch of his cock inside. 

She felt so close to him. She felt so _full_.

Sandor stayed like that for a moment, cursing throatily each time she clenched around the base of his shaft, and then put his mouth to her ear. “Know this, girl,” he ground out in strangled tones, “if you ever give another man what’s mine, I won’t kill you. _You’ll_ kill _him_. I’ll _make_ you kill him just before I rip his heart out. And then, so you never betray me again, I’ll lay you on his corpse and fuck you in his blood, whether you will it or no.” He placed a single kiss on her cheek and then stood tall on his knees behind her, dominating and ominous. “Now, my little bird, play with your cunt while I fuck your pretty arse.”

Sansa stared blankly ahead at the falling snow, her eyelids quivering, while a beast as black as the night watched them from a distance. 

All those malevolent words, and Sansa wanted him still. She wanted him all the more. The good and the bad. The comfort and the pain. The love and the hate. Every facet of him. His generosity and his envy. His safety and his threats. His kindness and his cruelty. Everything. Sandor Clegane and the Hound. Her guardian and her shadow. Her Warrior and her Stranger.

All of him. Whether he changed or not, whether he loved her or not, whether he killed the king or not.

She reached down and found her aching bud with two fingertips concealed inside a bloody glove. Her treasure pierced her skin, a warm trickle of blood making itself known. 

Sansa caressed her bud and wondered if a moment could ever be more perfect than this. 

Round and round her fingers went, matching the steady tempo of his cock as it so carefully went in and out of her tighter hole. The buildup was instantaneous, reaching her peak would not take long, she would be surprised if it took longer than a minute. As she whimpered and gasped and moaned, tears fell down her cheeks, as her moon blood flowed and trickled down the inside of her thighs. Sansa could feel how slick she was even with a gloved hand, her sex growing wetter and wetter, wanting to be filled, too. She wanted him in both places. How sweet it would be to feel him in both places at once.

“Come, little bird,” the Hound demanded, sounding just as she imagined when she pleasured herself moments ago. 

And then that same intrusive thought returned.

_‘Come on my cock if you want me to kill the king.’_

One more flick of her bud was all it took before Sansa desperately dug her fingers into the ground.

“Oh gods, Sandor!” she cried out, not caring if all of Winter Town heard her. 

“There’s no woman like you,” he moaned, over the sound of her cries and the slapping of their skins, “and there’s no man like me. You’ll never know another man - only me. You’ll only ever know _me_.”

“Only you,” Sansa repeated, staring at the dagger beside her face in a post-bliss stupor. “There’s only us, Sandor.”

It had the very same effect on him as confessing her love. His fingers dug into her hips until she’d bruise, as the rhythm of his thrusts became erratic. And then her mouth gaped open as wide as it could go, while liquid heat filled her. Sansa had been more than fond of the sensation of Sandor spending himself inside her sex, but there was something about his seed spurting inside where it was not meant to go that had her sobbing worse than she had when she thought he meant to take her life. 

She loved this. All of this. All of him. Always.

He tugged on her braid once more, pulling her forehead from her arms. Sansa looked ahead with heavy eyes and watched as their shadow sprinted off to the east. 

“There’s only us, little bird,” he repeated, then kissed the nape of her neck with lips as coarse as blades. “Only us.”


	9. Raven

A teardrop plopped into the water, and then another, her secret dying to be let out.

The bath had gone cold an hour ago, yet Sansa sat with her knees to her chest while skating the finger that had been licked by Sandor Clegane’s stolen blade on the surface of the water.

A foreboding whisper beckoned her over. Sansa turned her head in the direction of the chest at the end of her bed and let out a shuddering breath.

"No", she told the cooing dagger. "I'm getting rid of you _._ I must."

Sandor never felt it, never saw it, never knew it was her. Sansa wondered who he thought stole the weapon, but the answer to that was obvious.

_Arya. Who else?_

She wondered what that might mean for her sister. Would Sandor threaten her? Would he hurt her? No, of course not. He would never go that far. Theon was wrong about that. He would never hurt her family, not ever. Sansa looked at the bloody cut, her finger ugly and wrinkled from the water, and felt her chest cave in.

 _But what about me?_ _What would he do to me?_

Just before exiting the sanctuary of trees beside Winter Town, Shaggydog had brought them another body, not a whore this time, but a boy who looked to be no older than Bran. He hung lifelessly from wolf's black jaws, his throat ripped out. Sansa screamed and buried her face in Sandor’s chest. With a simple command, the Hound sent Shaggy off to the wolfswood to dispose of the body, then took her face in his hands, gentler than ever before. 

“The boy must have seen us,” Clegane said bluntly, his dark eyes burning into her. “He had to die.”

“He had to die,” Sansa repeated at once, in a trance.

“That’s a good little bird. Very good. And you’re going to keep this a secret.”

“I’m going to keep this a secret.”

"You'll lie for me."

"I'll lie for you."

"But you’ll keep no secrets from me. You'll never lie to me."

For a split second, she hesitated. Sansa should have told him then. She should have come clean and explained what happened, no matter the consequences. But instead, while blood soaked the inside of her glove and bare steel poked her underneath her shift, Sansa looked him in the eye and said, “I’ll keep no secrets from you, Sandor.”

He kissed her then, not like she was a princess, nor like she was a whore, but kissed her like she was a woman grown. 

Sandor Clegane had kissed her like she was his wife. 

And that kiss, that slow, sensual kiss that would have made her the envy of every woman in Westeros, would have never happened had she told him the truth. Yes, it was a lie. And yes, she was keeping a secret, but she would take that secret with her to the crypt before she would admit to having scoured his chambers for a sword he did not steal. Sansa would sooner take the stolen dagger to her throat before confessing to the Hound that she had listened to him pleasure himself to the thought of her wanting the king dead.

 _Stannis, not Robb_. _Never Robb._

It was a secret, in every sense of the word, but it was not a secret of infidelity or the like. Never would Sansa keep a secret to be malevolent. It was a secret to keep the peace between them. All she wanted was for him to be happy, for him to be proud of her. He would not be proud of her for invading his privacy and stealing from him. Then again, he would not be proud of her for lying and keeping secrets from him either. He might even hate her for that...

More teardrops fell in the water, creating an ambient tune inside her bedchamber. The whispers and howling evening wind made it a song. An eerie song. Perhaps the guilt would weigh less heavily once she rid herself of the dagger. Tomorrow would provide her the perfect opportunity, for Sandor would be leaving with Robb's hunting party to the wolfswood. After returning it, she could pretend like nothing ever happened at all. She never took his dagger. She never lied to him. But, for now, the blade would cry out to her, even after being tucked away inside her torn dress and bloody smallclothes from the day before.

 _The day before_ , Sansa thought with incredulity. Little wonder she was so tired and sore. 

In the span of two days, she had lost her maidenhead - twice. In the span of four days, the Stranger took seven lives: one kraken, one giant, three northmen, one whore, and one innocent boy. And before long, there would be an eighth, and then a ninth, and a tenth and an eleventh. The Stranger would continue to sweep Winterfell until they were the only two remaining.

 _Only us,_ she remembered, before quickly adding, _and my family. He would never harm my family._

Sansa struggled to keep her eyes open, but the guilt and pain forbade her from finding sleep. Her cut finger stung, her scraped armpit burned, her bruised knees throbbed, and her torn hole ached. 

That was Sansa’s favorite.

It hurt, but just like the aches lingering inside her sex, the tenderness between her cheeks served as a reminder that he had been inside her. Her lips curled into a small smile. Oh, how it pleased him so, how _proud_ he was of her. And how blissful of an experience it was to feel him fill her _there_. Sansa closed her eyes and leaned back, suddenly aroused. Before her maid would return to help her dress, Sansa placed her heels on either side of the tub and brought her hand underneath the water to meet her sex.

It was for naught. The instant she bent her fingers, her arousal was consumed by guilt and pain.

Sansa lifted her hand out of the water and watched red seep from the cut like tears on a carved weirwood tree. It was awfully conspicuous, but Sansa did not need to worry about Sandor ever seeing it. He was only ever with her during the day. So long as she kept her gloves on, he would remain none the wiser. She would see him in her dreams too, but those were only dreams, no matter how real they felt. Besides, would she carry her cut with her in her dreams? Sansa did not think so.

The muffled whispers returned. She frowned at the chest just before taking a deep breath and submerging herself under the cool water. 

That was better, the whispers silenced and replaced by the ethereal sounds of water drifting with her movements. Sansa liked how noise sounded underwater, a much different acoustic, otherworldly even. It almost felt like being in a dream under there, all alone in some dark abyss. She stayed under there for quite some time, feeling her lungs begin to burn. Even then she stayed under, because the more it burned, the more her nub tingled. She was going to come to like this, she was sure of it.

Sansa grabbed the edge of the tub with her left hand and held herself under, hips grinding, lungs filling with wildfire. Yet seconds before she would come, her body betrayed her. Acting on instinct, Sansa breached the surface of the water and gasped for air.

A door closed. That would be her maid, she knew. Keeping her right hand hidden underneath the water, Sansa used her left to comb back the sodden hair that fell over her eyes. 

She gasped again, louder, staring at the man before her. "Oh gods, you scared me. What are you doing in here?"

“The king commanded me to escort you,” Sandor Clegane said plainly. His eyes fell to where her breasts were heaving up and down. “He’s waiting on you again, little bird, and getting angrier by the second.”

“Oh, let him.” When she reached for the towel on the floor, Sandor kicked it towards the bed. Shivering, Sansa looked up at him and pouted. “Are we playing a game?”

“An accident,” he said with a smirk. Sandor gestured with his head towards the towel. “Go get it, girl.”

That would be too risky. If he saw a single cut…

Sansa rolled her bottom lip. “Please, won’t you give it to me? I’m so cold.”

“Better get out and get it then,” said Clegane, much darker. 

Whispers came for the chest. Sansa gave it a sidelong glance. “You can’t be here, Sandor. My maid will be coming by at any moment to help me lace my gown.”

The remnants of his smirk disappeared. “Get. Out.”

Sansa looked down at the water and swallowed. She was trapped there, but if she did not lift herself out of the tub, he would. Before standing up, Sansa wrapped her arms around herself. She must needs be careful not to lift her arm either, else he’d see where the point of the dagger scraped the hollow of her armpit. The bath water was tinged red with blood, but she could blame her moonblood for that. And when she winced while tucking her hand underneath her arm, Sansa knew the Hound would assume that was because of what they did earlier. It would all seem so innocent, unless he could somehow hear the vicious thumping of her heart, or the persistent coos leaving the chest...

Sandor was dead silent, dead still, as she stepped out of the tub. Even with her eyes downcast, Sansa could feel him scrutinizing her every move, scanning the bloody water that puddled at her feet and studying the wrinkled skin surrounding her erect nipples. She shivered some more, from cold and fear alike, and took slow steps towards her bed. 

Walking hurt, but bending over to pick up the towel hurt worse. The moment she stood back up and shrouded her hand with the towel, Sandor said, “Stay there.”

Heavy feet pounded on the floor, coming closer. Sansa looked straight ahead at the wall, jaw quivering. She couldn't pray to the old gods, so she prayed to the Stranger instead.

_Don't let him see. I'll return the dagger. Just don't let him see, please._

He placed his hands on her hips, then knelt down behind her. “You’re bruised, my little bird,” he said in one heavy breath, pressing his lips to her cheek. He was kissing her there, deep and slow, adding his tongue and then his teeth. Kiss, lick, gnaw, again and again. Piteous moans escaped her, and then a high-pitched gasp.

In contrast to his measured kisses, Sandor placed one hand on her back and forcefully bent her over the bed. His apology came in the form of a kiss, pinning her waist to the mattress as he ran his mouth along the small of her back. Softly moaning into the towel that concealed her secret, Sansa kept her arms close to her sides and prayed to the Stranger once more. She was at his mercy - both of theirs. His lips traveled down, mapping her fresh bruises with his maimed mouth and tickling her with the stubble that grew on his right cheek. Sansa writhed and giggled girlishly. She even thought she could feel him smiling against her skin.

His large hands cupped either side of her ass before spreading her open. Sansa mewled with pain as her hole stretched, and then again with equal parts shock and pleasure as his tongue flicked over it. She lost her breath and squirmed in his hold, overwhelmed by the sensation of his tongue lapping up and down her tender ring. But like most things, like all things, she could only succumb to him. He had a hold on her, pulling her towards him like faith. His words were holy and his touch more sacred than ancient earth inside the godswood. The old gods would no longer listen to her, but Sansa did not need the old gods, did she? Not if she had him. Sandor Clegane could be her god now.

Her cold, wet hair soaked the blanket beneath her, and then something much warmer was beginning to trickle down the inside of her thigh. Sansa was unsure whether it was his spit or her moonblood, but the Hound flattened his tongue and licked it up all the same. Sansa stretched her aching body and arched her back, moaning, "I love you, Sandor," when his nose ran up and down her crease. That satisfied him, a low rumble in his throat vibrating against her entrance. He bit her, then tongued her asshole in circles, moaning and smacking like a man enjoying the finest dish at a feast. Nothing could deaden her cries, not the towel, not the bed, not even biting down on her tongue until it was like to bleed. Sansa thought he meant to do it until she peaked, she wanted him to, but with one last tongue kiss, Sandor clapped her cheeks with both hands and stood back up.

It felt like breaching the surface of the water again. Sansa inhaled deeply, wondering how long it had been since her last proper breath. The Hound rolled her onto her back, then forked his fingers through her maidenhair. She laid there with her hands hidden underneath the towel above her head, feeling so small, and watched with reverence as the craggy face above her glistened in the light coming from the hearth. Her moonblood was on him. It was becoming a ritual, seeing her blood paint his body each time they were together. Sandor wiped his face with the back of his dark sleeve and said, “Dry off, little bird. I’ll get your maid.”

She did not move from that position, not even when her maid softly tapped on the door and entered. Sansa was in a daze, lethargic, listening to the dagger's whispers resume while blankly staring at the canopy above her head. The servant girl uttered some concern or the other as she helped her to her feet, but Sansa could only nod her head in response while keeping the towel firmly wrapped around her hand. When it came time for her to dress, Sansa turned away and slipped on a clean pair of gloves before putting on her smallclothes. That earned her a queer look from her maid, but it would be grossly out of line for a household servant to question a princess. With her hand now covered, Sansa felt a measure of relief, though not as much as she would feel once she rid herself of the dagger on the morrow.

Her hair was still damp, cascading down her back, when she exited her chambers. For supper, Sansa wore a gown of grey velvet trimmed with white silk, with gloves and a light cloak to match. The Hound was sharpening his dagger inside the corridor. He lifted his eyes from the sharp edge upon the door opening. The gown’s neckline dropped low enough to reveal her cleavage, but his eyes did not fall there. They were on her face, fixated, adoring, loving... 

In the presence of the servant girl, he could only say, “My princess,” before sheathing his dagger, taking his place beside her, and escorting her to supper.

“Gods, were it not for Clegane, you would have never come,” was how the King in the North greeted her once she stood outside the Great Hall. He pointed west, scowling with perpetually tired eyes. “I said to be here before dusk.”

Sansa gave the Hound a sidelong glance. “Forgive me, I-”

The king would not hear her feeble excuse and took her arm. Before leading her through the oak and iron door, Robb said, "Clegane, if you'll come with us. Rickon is refusing to eat unless you are there...again."

She almost giggled, until she remembered who it was they were supping with. It was one thing for him to _know_ she was dining with a young lord from the Riverlands, and quite another to stand there and witness it. 

Sansa looked down and winced.

_Oh, Robb, you poor blind fool. You've killed the man._

The spacious, balmy hall smelled of smoked meat, instantly turning her stomach. Burnt corpses smelled better, though it was likely her apprehensiveness that was making her feel so ill. Sansa found her siblings at the far end of the hall. Arya sat on the dais with her feet slung over one arm of the chair, twirling a knife between her fingers. Rickon sat in a chair beside her, crossing his arms and wearing a petulant frown until he spotted Sandor, and Bran sat to his right, resting his elbows on the table and never looking up.

Sitting across from them were the four Blackwoods visiting from Raventree Hall, each of whom rose to their feet upon their entrance. Her apprehension grew, matching the intensity of Sandor's doubtless rage, until the absence of one alarmed her. 

“Where’s Mother?” she whispered to the king.

Robb sighed, but never slowed his pace. “Mother is asleep.”

“Asleep? _Still_?” When he did not respond, Sansa furrowed her brow and said, “You ordered Maester Luwin to give her milk of the poppy. Why?”

“Because Mother is in pain, why else?”

“How much pain, Robb?” Sansa probed. “You need to tell me the truth. I’m her child, too.”

He appeared to consider that for a moment before shaking his head. “We’ll speak about this later, Sansa. I promise. But for now, it’s time to properly introduce you to Lord Blackwood’s sons.”

 _Son, you mean,_ she thought with bitter resentment.

It would be like this forever, just like Theon said. Introduction, betrothal, death. Indirectly, Sansa would be the bane of every man who ever meant to claim her as his own. It might as well have been her wielding the weapon and ending their lives. Helping Sandor...there was no helping him. She learned that outside of Winter Town. But how much longer could this go on? Robb, as tired as he was, as burdened as a king always was, would notice a pattern eventually. Someone would tell him. Someone would even come to him with proof. Arya would be that someone. She was devising something, Sansa knew. It was her who slipped that message under her door, hoping to create a rift between her and Sandor. How much did she know? Arya’s overall demeanor was suspiciously relaxed, almost good-humored. Sansa would need to speak with her. Only one of them would be able to get what they wanted, and it was going to be Sansa. 

The King in the North led her to greet the four visiting lords. There was Lord Tytos Blackwood, with whom she had met when Sandor returned her to her family along with his eldest son, Brynden. Although he was the heir to Raventree Hall, he was safe from the Stranger's wrath, for Brynden was said to be betrothed to one of Lord Walder’s many daughters. Lord Tytos' third son was there too - Hoster. He was almost as tall as Sandor, but he did not have a pound of muscle on him, a shy, lanky man of six-and-ten. He would be safe, too.

But then there was the man Robb intended for her to meet: Lucas, the second son of Lord Blackwood. He was undeniably handsome, a little over six feet tall, clean-limbed, with dark wavy hair that fell to his jaw. He was garbed in black and scarlet velvets, the colors of his House, with a black cloak pinned to his shoulder by a brooch in the shape of a raven. Comely, and a good friend of the king. If Robb were to ever consider offering Sansa’s hand to him in the future, it would for no other reason than because Lucas had earned his respect during the war. There was nothing to be gained politically. It would be utterly stupid of him to even consider it. But as of late, Robb only seemed to be interested in getting rid of her. She was beginning to wish that Sandor never returned her to her family at all. He should have taken her away, but somewhere else. It could have been just the two of them, alone. What was the point of coming home, only to be passed around Robb’s many friends?

She was re-introduced to Lord Tytos first, and then to Brynden and Hoster. And then, while Sandor was crouched beside Rickon, far too close to Arya's spinning knife for Sansa's comfort, the king said, “Sansa, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lord Lucas Blackwood. He was one of the men who accompanied Mother to meet with Renly, you might recall.”

It was obvious what he was doing. Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes.

The comely lord offered her a smile. “My princess.” 

Sansa stifled a whimper when he reached out and took her hand. He placed a kiss on the back of her cut finger, then said, “You are the very image of your mother, but made even more beautiful by the blood of the North.”

She smiled at him with pity.

 _That just cost you your life._

“My lord is kind to say so,” she said instead.

Robb unhooked his arm from hers. “Well, we’ve all waited long enough. Let us eat.”

Lucas pulled out the chair to the king's left, beckoning her to sit.

"Thank you, my lord," she said kindly, stealing a glance at the Hound who was patting Rickon on the shoulder and staring darkly in her direction.

 _'You’ll only ever know me,'_ she remembered.

_Only you, Sandor. Only us._

Sansa grimaced, sitting down on a seat of spikes. She wondered how long she would be this sore, not because she hated the pain, but because she wanted to do it again.

Lord Tytos sat on Robb's right and removed his gloves. Her heart sank, tearing a hole right through her. Somehow she had never thought of needing to remove her gloves. She could not see the Hound any longer, for he stood along the wall behind the table. Was he watching her? She knew the answer to that. If he saw... Sansa picked up the cup of water in front of her, keeping her gloves on.

“Evening, sister,” Arya greeted, sitting properly in her seat with a strangely pleasant expression. As soon as Robb enthroned himself on the dais, she said, “Enjoy your visit to Winter Town this morning?”

She swallowed the water, almost choking.

Robb looked at her, creasing his brow. “What business did you have in Winter Town?”

“None,” Sansa lied, staring daggers at the misfit. “I took a walk outside the castle to clear my head.”

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Arya cut in. “Your head’s clear enough as it is.”

Mouth agape, Sansa was one quip away from throwing her knife at that long, homely face.

“That's enough,” the king interjected, before returning to the subject at hand. “A weeping mother came to me today from Winter Town. She said her boy is missing.” Robb paused when a serving girl came by to fill his chalice with black beer. “Did you happen to see anything unusual?”

“No, not at all,” she responded casually. While he was busy taking a drink, Sansa looked away from Arya’s complacent smirk and quickly regarded the lord sitting across from her. “Lord Lucas, please do tell us how the Riverlands are faring under King Stannis’ rule," she said, falsely sweet.

Sandor would not be pleased with her tone, she knew, but surely he would know she was only doing it to maintain her innocence. 

The Great Hall’s atmosphere lightened when the subject changed from Sansa’s impulsive trip to the brothel in Winter Town to whatever Lucas Blackwood and his brothers were speaking about. She was not paying attention, not while the burning pain in her finger prevented her from cutting the venison on her plate. Instead, she gently picked up her fork and snacked on the carrots and greens, all the while forcing herself to smile and giggle when needed.

While Lucas was still speaking, Robb leaned over and whispered to her, “You’ve forgotten your manners, Sansa. Remove your gloves.”

At once, she was sweating, feeling the Hound's hot gaze behind her. “I-I'm cold. I think I caught a chill this morning during my walk.”

“Remove them now," the king murmured with a frown, "or I will.”

She dropped her hands in her lap, trapped again, knowing Robb's threat was not empty. Slowly, Sansa tugged off her gloves, the left one first, and then kept her hands hidden underneath the table. Robb resumed his conversation with Lord Blackwood, but the air inside the hall was not the same. The tenseness in the atmosphere thickened like a heavy fog, hindering her from drawing in a breath. Sansa could no longer participate in the conversation, nor could she eat. She sat there in silence, distressed, until she heard a string of words that grabbed her attention. 

“...once Bran arrives at the Citadel.”

Sansa perked up. “The Citadel?" she asked the king. "Did I mishear you?”

Robb gave an exasperated sigh. “That’s right. You were preoccupied with walking or napping or bathing when I last spoke with Maester Luwin.” The king took a gulp from his bronze chalice. “As you may know, Maester Luwin has been encouraging Bran to learn the maester’s craft. Well, as of this afternoon, Bran has informed me that he wishes to do so.”

For a moment, she was at a loss for words. Sansa leaned forward and looked down the table at her little brother. He picked at his food, wearing a sullen expression. “Bran? Is this true?”

When he lifted his gaze to her, his cheeks flamed. “Yes,” he said, quickly looking away.

Sansa briefly caught the Hound in the corner of her eye, suddenly feeling more ill than before. “Mother will never allow Bran to leave,” she explained to the king. “And Bran...he's your heir.”

“And now Rickon will be my heir until I have a son of my own.”

“You'll need a wife before that can happen,” Sansa thought out loud. 

A deafening silence ensued, until Rickon's innocent laughter filled the hall.

Robb looked at her; he did not share their brother’s amusement. “And when Bran rides south, you will be going with him.”

The smile blossoming on her lips fell. “What?”

“I spoke with Mother when she was awake earlier this afternoon. We've decided that you’ll be returning to Raventree Hall with Lord Blackwood.”

Sansa stared at the comely lord in front of her, wanting to scream. “I don’t understand."

"You’ll be visiting the Riverlands, sister,” Arya spoke up, beaming with a self-satisfied smile. “Perhaps even permanently.”

The atmosphere was blacker than smoke, thicker than the bog in the Neck. She could feel the fury exuding from the man standing against the wall. Her hands shook in her lap.

"But Bran is only twelve..." Sansa voiced.

Robb shrugged. "Maester Luwin has known novices younger than him at the Citadel. I'm proud of him, and if Father were here, he would be, too." He took a bite of venison, then chased it down with his beer. "Now, let us discuss the hunt on the morrow."

He and the lords resumed their evening conversation, talking about wolves, talking about hounds, talking about the feast for Sansa's nameday. And all the while, Sansa could not look away from him, her brother, the king. His crown was crooked again, which infuriated her, and when he laughed, she wanted to slap him. She wanted to do worse. One day after their arrival, and he has already promised her to another man. One day, and he has already sent her off. And if Lucas were to die, would she be betrothed to Hoster next? Or one of the younger brothers that were safely out of Sandor's reach at Raventree Hall?

“I won't leave."

The laughter and chatter fell silent. Robb turned to her, frowning. “We'll speak about this later."

“Winterfell is my home!" Sansa blurted. "I will not go.”

The king narrowed his blue eyes. Before he could scold her, another voice spoke up.

“What happened to your hand, sister?” asked Arya.

Sansa looked down. At some point during her rebuttal, she had lifted her hands above the table, her sliced finger on display for all to see. Sansa quickly folded her hands in her lap, but it was too late. She would need to lie, again.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured to her plate.

Robb placed his fork and knife down on the table. “Let me see your hand.” When she did not move, he said, with a stern tone, “Sansa, your hand.”

She listened to the howling wind in the following quiet seconds, wondering what Sandor was thinking at this very moment. Did he already hate her for keeping a secret? 

Sansa did not think Robb would do it in the presence of others, but she was wrong. The king reached over, grabbed her wrist, and held up her bleeding right hand.

“Gods be good,” Lucas Blackwood gasped.

Sansa kept her eyes in her lap, feeling as though she might retch.

“How did this happen?” Robb questioned firmly.

The first lie she could conjure up fell from her lips. “I tripped earlier and cut my hand on a rock.”

She heard Arya snort. “Liar. That’s a cut from a blade, and a sharp one, too.”

“A _blade_?” Lord Blackwood guffawed. “Northern women are said to be fiercer than the rest, but I highly doubt the princess is playing with swords and daggers.”

Sansa grimaced at the word. “I tripped,” she said softly, hoping to earn herself some sympathy.

It did not work, not for the king. “Did you take Needle?” He asked her after a moment's reflection. “Our sister has been without her sword all day.”

“No,” Sansa answered, lifting her head to defend herself. “I swear on Father's tomb I did not take it.”

“Father’s tomb was destroyed, remember?” Arya chimed in. “Why not swear it by your maidenhood instead?” She stabbed the venison with her knife, ripped off a piece with her teeth, and then added, as she chewed, “Oh wait, you can’t do that either.”

A passing serving girl gasped, and Lord Blackwood sounded as if he were choking on his food.

The king slammed the table with his fist. “That is more than enough! There will be no more slandering, there will be no more bickering. Sansa, after supper, you will return the sword to Arya and that will be the end of it. I should have known...”

The accusation stole the little of the breath remaining in her lungs. “But I didn’t take it!”

“Then who did? Little Rickon?” the king scoffed, his crooked crown glistening in the candlelight as he looked away. “You’ll return it or you can spend your nameday inside your bedchamber.”

Arya began to snicker. Sansa looked at his profile and watched it turn red. “I was wrong,” she said, almost darkly, like the Hound, “you’re not like Joffrey. You’re worse.”

A daunting silence ensued. Robb closed his eyes and chewed his bottom lip like he used to do when they were children. Before she could gauge anyone else’s reaction, the king stood up, hooked a hand underneath her arm, and lifted her from the chair. Her hair whipped around, blinding her, as the king pulled her over to the gallery and dug his fingers where the blade had cut her skin.

Sansa shrieked with pain. “Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

Robb did not let go or speak, not until the door to the gallery was closed. He cornered her inside the dimly-lit space, then brought his face an inch away from hers. “I’m going to tell you this once! Just once! Don’t you ever disrespect me again! Do you understand?”

She began to sob and tremble involuntarily.

“ _Do you_?”

The door opened, saving her from shouts that reeked of black beer. In the bright doorway stood a figure, a black silhouette, tall and massive.

“Your Grace, the princes are crying...both of them.”

It was true. In the relative silence, she could hear her brothers sniffling through the open door. Robb took two slow steps away from her, as if waking from a terrible dream, before turning to Clegane. “Take them to their chambers,” he ordered, sounding like a boy. “Arya, too.”

Sandor stood there, unmoving, with one hand resting on his hip.

 _Not his hip,_ Sansa thought, _but his sword._

The shadow shifted, then said, “And Princess Sansa?”

Robb cleared his throat. “No, no, I’ll take her myself.”

Clegane continued to linger, even then. Sansa's ragged breaths echoed inside the dark space, sobbing still. She could not see his face, only his bulky frame, blacker than night. But his eyes...his eyes burned worse than any pain anywhere on her body.

He turned away and disappeared inside the Great Hall.

The door closed, and darkness greeted them once more.

Robb reached for her good hand. “Sansa, I’m…”

She pulled away. “A monster.”

“A monster?”

“You’re a monster. _You_. Father told me once in a dream.”

“A dream?” Robb’s demeanor became hard again, his remorse fleeting. “Very well, let me be a monster. But you _will_ respect me. Not because I'm the king, but because I am your brother, and all I do for you, I do out of love.”

“ _Love_?" Sansa almost laughed. "You intend to send me off to the Riverlands and wed Lucas, a man whom I met an hour ago, and you have the audacity to call that love?”

“A visit is not a wedding,” he said sharply, before giving a weary sigh. “Sansa, you’ll be a woman in two day’s time. With Father dead, it is my responsibility to find you a suitable husband. A man that I can trust to take care of you. This...this was never the plan. You were betrothed to Theon when I learned the Blackwoods would be visiting Winterfell." He paused and took a deep breath. Sansa thought he might even cry. "Maybe the old gods brought them here for a reason. Maybe all of this is for a reason...” He looked up to the vaulted ceiling, as if waiting for the gods to confirm or refute. Only the wind answered. Robb dropped his head. “One day, when you are wed to a good man and have his children, you will thank me. I promise you that.”

That was where the conversation ended. Sansa had nothing left to say, nor did he. When they re-entered the Great Hall, only Lord Blackwood and his sons remained, speaking to one another in hushed tones. Doubtless the rivermen heard the entire exchange. They rose from their seats as they entered, but Robb gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Please, my lords, be seated," said the now somber king. "I ask for your forgiveness. A lot has happened in the past week, and none of us have slept very much.”

Sansa stood with her eyes fixed on the ground beneath her feet, arms folded, and listened to each of the lords accept the King in the North's apology as if it were unnecessary. Afterward, Robb escorted her to the Great Keep, though Sansa refused to take his arm and kept her distance. She would never forgive him for ordering Maester Luwin to confirm that she was a maiden. She would never forgive him for the yelling, nor for the betrothals. She would never forgive him for accusing her of taking Arya's sword.

Sansa hated him, she realized. Bound by blood or not, she hated him. 

Inside the corridor, she could hear Sandor's deep voice coming from Rickon's bedchamber. The words were low and indistinct, but Sansa could feel the warmth in them, speaking to her youngest brother like a father putting his child to sleep. Sansa almost smiled as she listened, until she remembered.

_'But you’ll keep no secrets from me. You'll never lie to me.'_

_The dagger_ , she thought. _I must get rid of the dagger. Now._

While she was lost in her thoughts, Robb kissed her cheek. “Sleep well, Sansa. I'll send Maester Luwin to see to the cut on your hand." He made for Arya's bedchamber, then stopped. "I trust you," he told her over his shoulder. "I trust you didn't take Needle."

Sansa did not believe it, nor did she care whether he trusted her or not. Without a word, Sansa entered her bedchamber, locked the door, then darted towards the chest. A cry of pain escaped her when she knelt down on her bruised knees. She threw open the heavy lid with urgency and rummaged through her cloaks, clumsily tossing them over her shoulder to find the bottom of the chest.

And then her hands froze.

She felt the stinging in her cut finger, the burning in her scraped armpit, the throbbing in her bruised knees, and the aching in both holes. 

_'I’ll keep no secrets from you, Sandor.'_

Sansa stared at the lone torn dress and dropped her head in defeat.


	10. Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, know that I feel truly blessed that you are down to read this crazy shit 🙃 This one is...something. New tags, as usual. Enjoy! ♥

_Scrape...scrape...scrape_

Her lungs filled with air, gasping, as her lips opened to plead. 

"Don't kill me!"

A long silence followed, then _scrape...scrape...scrape._

Sansa knew where she was, even with her eyes still shut. She was lying on her back in a realm of darkness, the lifeless sanctuary of the only god she had left.

She had tried, desperately, to fight off sleep, sitting upright on her bed and watching that shadow in the sliver of light underneath her door pass back and forth for hours. It was transfixing, the rhythm, and Sandor Clegane's heavy, unhurried, ominous footsteps won and lulled her to sleep.

_Scrape...scrape...scrape_

Scrapes replaced knocks, cool steel replacing a hand just as deadly. _The dagger,_ she knew, the one she had stolen from him, the one Sandor had found hidden inside the chest and took back along with her bloody smallclothes. The blade's rasping instilled a fear tantamount to the pleasure its hilt gave her when sheathed inside her sex, unbearably horrifying, undeniably orgastic.

_He has it here, too. Will he know that I lied to him here, too?_

The thought filled her with dread, not knowing what her punishment might be, only that there would be one, and his praise would be replaced with criticism. She would rather die than listen to that. Reluctantly, Sansa sat up and opened her eyes.

Right there, no more than ten feet ahead, stood her only company: a blood red door, locked and barred. The dagger cooed on the other side.

_Scrape...scrape...scrape_

Her eyes widened, watching the handle shake. He could not get in, could he? Not in reality, but dreams were not reality. He could find a way in without being heard. He could break in. He could bash down the door and split the bar in two, if he wanted. He could split _her_ in two. The thought made her worn holes clench. And in this dark, empty nothingness, who would hear her scream? 

No one.

A flame licked her finger. Sansa looked down at her hand and expelled all the air she harbored in her lungs.

Not a flame, but a wound. The cut made it to her dream, open and bleeding, the only evidence Sandor Clegane would need. 

_Scrape...scrape...scrape_

“No,” Sansa trembled, looking at the door and then at her hand. “No, no, no.” She pinched her arm until the pain was searing, not caring if her fingernails broke skin. “Wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up.” She pinched and tugged and twisted, she even slapped her face until her ears were ringing, but there was no waking from this dream, no leaving this bleak world that felt as real as her own.

 _H_ e wanted her here, and before she would wake, that door would open, one way or another.

_Scrape...scrape...scrape_

Sansa would need to run. 

She stood on weak, quivering legs, not once taking her eyes off the pulsing red wood. With a whisper, her nightgown fell to her knees. It felt strange wearing clothing in her shadow's abyss. So often she was nude in this dreary place, stripped of everything once he found her. Her knee popped when she took a step back, all of her aches and bruises awaking with groans. As steadily as she could manage, she took a second step and then a third, gradually distancing herself from the man wielding the dagger on the other side.

_Scrape...scrape...scrape_

A bead of sweat rolled down her face, and her nipples poked through her thin gown. So strange was the duality of her response to the sound, part terror, part lust. 

But not even her lust could convince her to open that door. She was not ready to face him and admit her wrongdoings, not in reality, nor in her dreams. Would she ever be? When she made to take a fourth step, her foot bumped against warm stone.

 _A wall?_ she wondered. _Here?_

Hesitantly, she turned around. It was not a wall like she had initially thought, but a jagged boulder nearly as tall as her. She stared at it for quite some time, then clasped her hands over her mouth once she saw what was carved at the bottom: a direwolf that looked like Lady, curled at a man's feet. It was not a boulder at all. At some point, it was a statue.

Now it looked like her father, headless. He looked exactly as she remembered him outside the Great Sept of Baelor after Ser Ilyn struck off his head with a single blow.

Sandor Clegane achieved the likeness of Eddard Stark better than the sculptor. 

Made of stone and headless, yet it spoke. “You have forsaken me.”

It was her father's voice, blatantly displeased. Once that would have made her cry, but there was only one man she feared disappointing now. And not only had she disappointed that man, she had betrayed him. _Scrape...scrape...scrape._ Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and took a step away.

“I have not," she lied.

"You have forsaken us all," Eddard Stark's ruined effigy went on, "for a _monster_."

She need not glance at the door to see red. "Don't you call him that!" Sansa hissed at the stone. "Robb's the monster. _Robb._ Your son! He's going to send me away!"

Insentient to what she was saying, the once comforting voice said, “Wolf blood runs through your veins, yet you have forgotten who you are."

That was not true. She knew exactly who she was, better than ever before. She furrowed her brow. "I know who I am."

Dark, viscous blood oozed from the cracks in the late Lord Stark's chest. "My little girl...” he lamented, again and again. "My little girl...my little girl...my..."

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palms against her ears. “Shut up!”

“Wolf blood," he sobbed, arousing not an ounce a pity. "My little...”

A thread was pulled, the last one holding her together, and the truth echoed in the void. “I’m not a wolf and I'm not your little girl! I’m his little bird!" Sansa pointed to the door with her eyes still closed. "I’m _his_! Only his!”

When neither a dagger's whispers nor a phantom's voice came, Sansa opened her eyes.

Lady was drowning in blood at the late lord's feet. “The...lone...wolf...dies…” Eddard Stark quavered softly, just before the stone crumbled into the finest, reddest dust.

She could only stare and blink, blink and state, and repeat those four words. _The lone wolf dies._ They haunted her for a moment, until she thought, _I'm not a wolf,_ and returned her gaze to the door, the silent, silent door. All she needed to do was remember. 

_You said you wouldn't kill me, even if I gave myself to another man._ Sansa took a step forward, closing the distance. _You'll never kill me, no matter what I do._

 _I’m yours,_ she thought, her bare feet padding the ground one by one. _Only yours._

Sansa heaved the wooden bar onto the ground and turned the lock. Part of her expected the door to swing open, but there was no movement, only heavy silence. She pressed her ear to the red wood. _Am I too late? s_ he wondered in horror. _Did he leave me?_ With haste, Sansa placed her blood smeared palm on the handle and pulled open the door.

It was darker on the other side, a blacker, larger, more infinite oblivion. _I should not be here,_ thought Sansa, placing one foot in front of the other. _I do not belong on this side._

But if that were true, why did venturing deeper into it give her the sensation of a warm, familial embrace? Why did this darkness, wherever she was, feel like home?

It came from her right, a slow, blood-curdling voice. " _Ssssanssssaaaa_."

She turned her head. He did not leave her after all. A few steps away stood the Stranger, awaiting her, motionless. His hands were covered by long black sleeves that fell to the floor. She did not know if he had the dagger, so she stood inside the doorway and said, “Sandor?”

The cowl did not move when he shook his head.

The coldest chill, a finger made of ice, ran down her spine. “W-where is he?”

The Stranger pointed to his left. Out of thin air, a door appeared, this one pale as milk.

She hesitated, then thought, _It's only a dream. It's not real. No one can hurt me here._ Just before she could make her way to the white door, something coarse and warm and wet brushed her bleeding finger. Sansa gasped and pulled her hand away, just as a second black figure loomed in front of her, its eyes like wildfire.

“Shaggy,” she breathed, running her fingers through his fur. _Real, he feels so real._ "How did you get here? Where are-"

His head snapped to the left, followed by a low, threatening growl passing through his sharp, bared teeth. The sound of a door shutting came from the same direction, a door Sansa could not see, and then Rickon's wolf sprinted off into the shadows.

She looked back at the Stranger. He was leaving, walking towards the white door, a dark cloud of smoke trailing behind him.

“Wait,” Sansa called out pitifully. “Don’t leave without me. I want to come, too.”

At once, he paused and turned around. When he offered her his hand, the long black sleeve pulled back just enough to reveal fingers void of flesh, his bones paler than the wood beside him. The sight did not frighten her; rather, it was captivating. Sansa walked forward and took it, holding onto his thin fingers like a young girl might hold onto her father's, and allowed him to escort her through the door.

More darkness, eternal darkness, but this darkness smelled sickly, like an animal on the brink of death. It was cooler beyond the door, too. Something was lurking inside. Something foreboding that she could not yet see was without.

Someone.

_Sandor._

The Stranger released her hand and closed the door behind them. Suddenly, ten long white fingers found her shoulders and tore off her nightgown. A feeble moan left her. The fabric piled at her feet like a mound of fresh snow. Standing in the nude, gooseprickles rising, nipples stiffening, sex and ass clenching, Sansa startled at the sound of something clattering against the floor.

Metal on stone.

Then three words. “Pick it up.”

Her throat closed shut at the sound of Sandor Clegane’s voice. It was all ice, dripping with contempt, more frightening than the Stranger's hands would have been to anyone but her. Large hands, like Sandor's. When she made to grab onto the Stranger's robes, her hands only found air.

He was gone. 

“I said. Pick. It. _Up_.”

Sansa stared ahead at nothing and began to sob. “Sandor...I'm sorry.”

The sound of steel on leather made her take a step back and bump into the door.

_Another dagger. Maybe a sword._

"W-wait, I can't see anything," she said, breathing erratically. "I can't-"

“Get down. Crawl. And pick it up. _Now_.”

Sansa winced after every word, sobbing harder. He was angry with her, overtly disappointed. _This_ was a disappointment that stung. A disappointment that could kill. His praise...would she ever hear it again? She needed it, the most basic of needs. Perhaps if she did as she was told, she could earn his forgiveness and praise. Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe he would kill her after all.

_This is only a dream..._

Bending her knees, Sansa got down on all fours and slowly crawled her way forward. As she searched for the dagger she had foolishly stolen, her tears fell on the unforgiving stone beneath her. The bruises on her knees screamed. There were sounds inside the cooler space, but only two were audible to her ears. Her sobs and Sandor's breaths, both quickening.

Sansa froze once her fingers found cold, hard steel. It whispered to her, welcoming. Like a snare, her blood-stained hand clutched around the dagger and brought it to her breast. Its sharpened point teased her nipple, like a hungry babe making to suck. 

“Tell me,” the Hound said in front of her, much, much closer, though still a victim to the darkness.

She sat on her knees and swallowed. “I lied," Sansa confessed, her voice sounding like a child's.

“You kept a secret."

“I kept a secret."

"You slipped inside my bedchamber while I slept, didn't you?"

She held the dagger closer to her breast, then said, in a voice so small, "Before that."

"Before..." The Hound trailed off, laughing. It was a terrible laugh, arousing the same feelings the scrapes on the door had. "I knew I smelled you. I thought..." He paused again. Wood creaked, followed by a heavy foot meeting the floor. He was coming closer. "You listened to me."

"I listened to you, Sandor."

"You heard what I said?"

"I heard what you said."

"Tell me what I said."

Full of shame, Sansa dropped her head, even though she could not see him. "You wanted me to, to tell you..."

His footsteps stopped. " _Now_."

Sandor Clegane was there in front of her, she knew. Sansa could smell him, sweat and earth, masking the other sickly smells inside this somber sanctuary of his. They were a man's smells. A beast's. And so, so real. A warm trickle ran down her calves and puddled onto the stone.

"You wanted me to tell you to kill Stannis," she wept.

There was a moment's silence, followed by an awful laugh. Two large hands seized her head and shook her violently.

"Wake up!" Clegane rasped. 

Her already open eyes somehow opened again. There was light, soft and golden, and then there was his face towering above her a hundred feet away, creased and crimson.

_And **real**._

"You're here," Sansa blurted, tasting the salty tears from her dream. _Only it_ _was not a dream at all,_ she thought, nonplussed. _It was real. Has it always been real?_ "You're in my bed-"

A small groan made her turn her head in the other direction. Only one candle was lit on the bedside table, but it provided all the light she needed to discover where they were. Terror struck, making her want to retch. It was not her bedchamber they were in, but her sickly mother's.

_The smell of death...a door paler than milk..._

When Sansa made to stand up, the Hound pushed down on her shoulders, her knees falling into the warm puddle beneath her. "We can't be here," she stammered. "She'll wake up...why are we..."

Sandor ignored her and pulled out his manhood. It jutted out an inch away from her face, long and thick and heavy, its smell so pungent, hair darker than shadows at the base. All else was forgotten. Sansa's mouth began to water.

"Not Stannis," he growled down at her. "But you knew that." He took a handful of her hair, sparing her no pain, and pulled her closer until her lips brushed the head of his cock. "Open your mouth."

Sansa dropped the dagger onto the stone and pushed against his thighs. They were massive, hard and thick like trunks of a tree. She had never seen him this close before. He was so beautiful, and so frightening, pulling her hair mercilessly. The burning pain in her scalp made her squeal and say, "Please, let go! Please, Sandor, it hurts!" He growled, deeper than Shaggydog had in her dream. Her waking dream...

"Open your bloody mouth!" 

She mewled. "Please...I don't know what to do..." 

The Hound tightened his grip in her hair and said, "You open your pretty little lying mouth and you let me fuck it."

_That's all?_

Was this her punishment? She would have laughed, if she dared. Yes, the tugging of her hair hurt, but Sansa was eager to do this, especially after learning he had paid a whore to do it to him more than once. The thought made her see red again, but it did not matter, she quickly reassured herself. Sansa could not even remember the whore's name, only that she was dead. Clegane had killed her, broke her neck like she was nothing to him. That made Sansa feel better. Sandor was hers, she was his, and she would earn his forgiveness by pleasuring him. He deserved it after what she had done, and Sansa deserved any pain that came along with it.

Sansa opened up her jaws as wide as she could, spit dripping down her tongue as she took in the red, bulbous head. Their moans created a note and then a cadence, the taste of him awaking her senses. Did he always taste this good? Salty and musky, yet sweet too. The taste of a man, the flavor of a beast. Salivating, Sansa tried to take in more of him, but immediately stopped once her teeth grazed his shaft. His girth wouldn't fit, truly, not like how her sex and ass stretched open to accommodate his size. Her jaw was locked, as wide as it would go. She was failing him...

Or so she thought. The Hound must have liked the sensation, for he brought his hips forward and moaned, even when her teeth softly brushed his cock. 

She gagged when it prodded the back of her throat, the middle of his shaft still inches away. It made her bud tingle, so she gagged again; she could come like this, if he would be so kind to allow her to.

"Look at me," he rasped. 

She did, through tear-stained eyes, wrapping her lips around him.

"Pretty girl," he praised darkly, using the hand not twisting her hair to wipe the spit dripping out the corners of her mouth. Sansa inhaled through her nostrils, intoxicated. "You're going to suck my cock like how you sucked my dagger."

It would be a monstrous feat, an impossible one, too. The blade was thin, his cock twice as long and wider than her oral orifice. But excuses would not do her any good, be they legitimate or not. Sansa needed to do her best for him, for his praise, for the growing desire to feel his seed drip down her throat and wash her belly. He was hers, and she was his. A little bird praising her god of darkness.

Sansa pulled back a little, jaws already aching like rusty hinges. The hand pulling her hair never loosened its hold, but instead followed along with her head as it bobbed back and forth on his cock. She could only take in a few inches each time, sucking softly, just as he bid her. His moans gave her confidence, non-verbal praise, while she savored his taste. Such a sweet, sweet taste, her belly rumbling. Soon it was not only her head moving, but her whole body, rocking back and forth and humming softly as her tongue caressed the bulging veins beating with his pulse.

Just when she thought he might spill, his cock stiffer than the dagger's blade, he said, “How do you taste, little bird?”

She abruptly grew still, not understanding, and looked up at him through her blurred vision. His face was mean and twisted. It was not until his cock twitched in her mouth and her holes ached for it in response did she remember the tenderness down below.

 _How I taste..._ Sansa's eyes widened. _He never bathed after we...after he put it in my..._

Shame and disgust washed over her. She tried to pull back but his grip would not let up. He wanted her there, and she could only bend to his will. Sansa considered biting him, maybe even grabbing the dagger whimpering on the floor, but knew she would quickly rue that decision. All the while, her bud was swelling and pining for his touch. No, she would not stop. Sansa liked this. Tasting herself on him was not so bad, she admitted to herself, mouth dripping, her senses on fire.

She _loved_ this.

_Not a punishment at all._

"Grab my cock," Sandor Clegane commanded. When she took her left hand off his thigh, he said, “The other."

Unable to speak with his cock wedged in her mouth, she lifted up her bloody palm, showing him the cut on her finger. Surely he had forgotten...

But he did not. The Hound nodded, grinning down at her. "That's right, girl."

Sandor wanted her blood. He wanted her to lick it off him, just like he wanted her to lick off all the other fluids that had dried on his cock from earlier that morning.

Sansa wanted it, too.

Eagerly, she wrapped her bloody hand around his shaft, groaning on the head when she curled her fingers and angered her open wound.

"Oh _fuck_ ," the Hound cursed, as she began to stroke his shaft from the base while sucking his tip. "Look at me. _Now_."

Sansa lifted her gaze, never stopping. Every stroke painted his shaft with more blood, and every bob of her head brought more blood into her mouth, warm and salty and and bitter, just like his skin. They moaned in unison like something more than lovers, concurrently achieving pleasure from the oral intimacy. They were one person then, better together. She tried to suck at a comfortable pace, but found herself matching her speed to the intensity of their moans.

A loud slurping noise tore through the room when her mouth popped off his head by accident. She was embarrassed by it at first, until he said, in utter agony, " _Very good_ , little bird, let me hear you suck my cock."

Her legs were sodden underneath her. Sansa sucked on it loudly, moaning and popping and humming and slurping, moving her mouth down his cock until she choked on it and pulled away gasping for air. Once that happened, Sandor pulled her up by her hair and brought her to her feet.

Only then did she remember where they were, a woman with hair a shade darker than her own motionless on the bed.

 _Is this humiliation?_ she wondered, liking the sensation of it, too. Only criticism could punish her. Everything else... 

The Hound yanked her to the wall beside the nightstand that held the candle, now standing mere feet away from her mother.

"Get back on your knees," he growled.

She did at once, folding her legs underneath her and pressing her toes against the wall. When Sansa made to grab his cock, he swatted her hand away and took her head between his hands, gently pressing it against the wall. Once he kicked off his boots and breeches, he placed a foot on either side of her, straddling her as he stood tall. Sansa knew what he meant to do at once. It would be just like he said.

_'You open your pretty little lying mouth and you let me fuck it.'_

She submitted to him, willingly. The Hound held her head in place as he bucked his hips forward, fucking her mouth slower than he did her cunt, yet faster than he fucked her ass. Her jaws burned, all of her burned, but she sat there and took it, grateful for every gag and cough and choke. Sansa deserved to have her pretty little lying mouth fucked after lying to him; Sandor was right. Spit dripped onto her thighs, covered her chin, traveled inside her nostrils.

 _Beautiful_.

Sansa placed her hands on his thighs, clawing them as she cried with his every thrust. Then she found herself caressing him, bold enough to fondle for his firm balls. Sandor groaned something unintelligible and lost his rhythm. She massaged them, following his movements, before returning to his thick thighs, thighs that could choke her, if they wanted. Then found the back of those thighs, and then something even better, further up... 

A god, and sculpted like one, too. Every part of him exuded strength, those two round muscles flexing each time he brought his hips forward. A noise escaped him that she had never heard before, a pleading sort of moan, almost submissive. _Has he ever felt this before?_ she wondered, as she softly stroked his ass with her dainty fingers. Judging by his reaction, she did not think so. He released her head just then and pressed his forearms against the wall, leaning forward with his head hanging down and fucking her mouth slowly. She looked up at him adoringly, watching his dark hair sway above her like a canopy. Sandor was making love to her mouth, the purest love, and allowing her to explore his body.

Eternally grateful, Sansa grabbed his ass and pulled her to him with all the strength that she had, swallowing more of his cock with every thrust. She was getting better, for him. His low moans ran together, sending her on a power trip. Sansa was ready to learn what it felt like to have him spend himself inside her mouth.

As she massaged his muscled cheeks and ran her fingers through the hair there, the crudest curses she had ever heard filled her ears. Jubilantly, Sansa moved her fingers to the top of his crease. But before she could trail any further, a gruff, horrible sound escaped him, and then her mouth was completely empty.

Sandor spilled on her face first, a warm shot of liquid landing on the tip of her nose and extending to her forehead, then he shoved himself back inside her mouth and let her catch the rest on her tongue. It came out in spurts, his cock pulsing with each one. Salty and bitter, like her blood. Moaning, she closed her eyes and let it collect in the back of her throat, only swallowing once she felt his cock begin to soften. It made her sad that it was over. Sansa wanted to come, too. The Hound pulled out of her and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, eyes shut, his mind evidently somewhere else...

One milky droplet hung from the tip of his cock. Even when becoming soft, he was thick and meaty, hanging so heavily in front of her face. Sansa could not resist. She leaned forward and licked it off, thinking it would please him, but all it earned her was a large hand around the neck.

The Hound pulled her to her feet and pinned her to the wall, squeezing her throat. “This is what you like, isn’t it?" His voice was breathless and hoarse, his eyes wet and catching the light from the candle. "Think I didn't see what you were doing in the tub?" He squeezed harder, her rapid pulse roaring in her ears. "Go on, little bird. _Say it_."

A strangled noise escaped her, smaller than the mewl of a dying wolf pup.

His eyes gleamed with lust. “You _love_ it.” He spread her legs apart with one kick of his foot, then cupped her sex before giving it a spank. Her knees gave out underneath her, but she did not fall, not with the iron hand anchoring her to the wall. The Hound spanked her there again, harder, her squeals unable to leave her constricted throat. “Should I fuck you with the dagger you stole from me? Bugger you with it while I fuck your bloody cunt?”

 _Yes, oh yes,_ she would have said if she could speak.

“Do you want to come, little bird?” he asked her, gazing deeply into her eyes as one finger found her bud. "I'll make you come on my hand. I'll make you squirm on it, piss on it, _bleed_ on it. I promise."

Sansa closed her eyes as her vision blackened, from lack of air, from unparalleled arousal. He rubbed her sweetly, applying pressure and moving his fingers in circles, just like she did. Even while her body was slowly growing limp, Sansa moved her hips to chase her release, squirming on his hand. But a fraction of a second before her body would collapse in on itself, he removed his hand.

Her eyelids lifted, feeling so, so disappointed.

Sandor Clegane was seething, even after what she had done to please him. “Hurts to be lied to, doesn’t it?”

Sansa broke into sobs; his displeasure was too much for her to take. It hurt to move her jaw, but she did it anyway. “I-I never wanted...to disappoint...you."

"But you did," Sandor told her, his tone solemn now. He released her throat and took a step back; he was going to leave her. "You disappointed me, Sansa. You looked me straight in the face and you lied to me."

The criticism sent a dagger through her heart, impaling and twisting before being ripped out and stabbing her again.

_Punishment. **This** is my punishment._

Dying would have hurt less. Desperately, she stumbled forward, wrapped her arms around his torso as best as she could, and dug her face into his chest, letting the wool of his tunic collect his seed and her tears.

He held her in his big arms and shushed her softly. "But you'll never do it again," Sandor said to the top of her head. "You'll tell me the truth, even if angers me. No secrets will be kept from me again."

"I'll never do it again," she repeated between heavy sobs.

"Because you're mine."

"Because I'm yours."

"Because you belong to _me_ ," he grizzled. The Hound grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to the edge of the bed. "Now tell your mother who you belong to."

Sansa's bare breasts heaved up and down, as she watched her mother begin to stir. She wondered if Mother could hear them in her strange poppy dreams.

So she enunciated the words, making sure they were heard. Sansa knew who she was, and so did the man she once called Father. Perhaps it was time that everyone knew...

"I belong to Sandor Clegane, Mother," she declared shakily, not once taking her eyes off her gaunt, pallid face. "I'm not a wolf, I'm his little bird."

As soon as the last word fell off her tongue, Sandor swung her back around and kissed her, sampling the taste of blood and seed and fluids, praise in the most physical form. " _Perfect,"_ he breathed raggedly against her lips. The one word made Sansa see heaven's light. "You're bloody _perfect_."

She lifted her tired, swollen eyes, her eyelashes still wet from his seed, and revered him. "Do you forgive me?"

"I'll forgive you, my little bird," said Sandor, as he firmly cupped her aching jaw, "once you tell me what you want."

Her two holes longed to be used like her mouth, but there was one thing she wanted more than that. To earn his forgiveness, she knew what she needed to say, what she _wanted_ to say. And Sansa knew that he knew that he heard her. _Not Stannis._ Maybe Theon was right. Maybe this is what she wanted all along.

 _He'll do anything for me,_ she remembered. _He'll kill anyone for me._

Sansa looked into his dark eyes and unravelled completely. "I want you to kill the king, Sandor."


	11. Trout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you: the chapter from hell.  
> Wrote half of it, trashed it, re-wrote it, thought I was done, wrote more and more, and I _still_ feel weird about it. urgh.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this one, even though I've been in a funk lately. 🙃
> 
> ♥

_We're not evil. It's the world that's evil._

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

A bead of crimson swelled on her fingertip after the needle pricked her skin.

Setting the unfinished cloak in her lap, Sansa brought her finger to her mouth and licked off the blood. Her tongue sang. The taste reminded her of Sandor Clegane. 

He would be back before long, riding with the king's hunting party on the eve of her name day. Sansa wanted to come along, even if doing so did not befit a princess. But, to no surprise, it did not matter what she wanted. The King in the North had quickly rejected her request, just before sending her to the maester to have her finger bandaged up. 

"I told you to let Maester Luwin see to your wound last night!" Robb Stark had chastised her at the break of dawn, his apology from the night before dead and gone. "Gods, do I need to get on my knees and beg?"

He was in a terrible mood, as ever. Last night, while she and Sandor made love inside Catelyn Stark's chambers again and again, the king was out with what remained of his personal guard in search of the two missing direwolves. Only Shaggydog was inside the castle, guarding the corridors of the Great Keep at the behest of the Hound. But Grey Wind and Summer...no one knew where they were, not even Sandor.

They went on the hunt all the same, releasing the hounds from the kennels as soon as the sun rose in the east. Sansa had come out to the yard that cold, bright, blustery morning, catching sight of Arya Stark's piercing eyes and grim expression near the smithy, and wished her unfortunate suitor, Lucas Blackwood, a safe and pleasant hunt. It was not her hand the young comely lord kissed before departing, but her cheek, the same one that Sandor spilled on hours ago.

Sansa saw it in the Hound's eyes as he mounted his black stallion, the darkness that had a hold on him. The same darkness that now had a hold on her.

Lucas Blackwood would die today, and Sansa knew that his death would not be fast or merciful. Sandor Clegane would see to that. He would make it awful.

"While I am away, spend time with Mother," Robb Stark had commanded her, his hair windblown, his crown crooked, a poor excuse for a king. "And see that Arya does, as well."

Sansa crossed her arms. "Why? Because she's dying?" she asked him bluntly, though she already knew the answer.

The king turned to her, his face hard and unsmiling. "Because I said so," he had answered tersely, before leading his party through the Hunter's Gate.

It was almost over, the constant orders, the constant reprimands, the constant tired, disapproving looks from the King in the North. By the end of the day tomorrow, on her sixteenth name day, the king would be dead.

Taking in a long, deep breath, despite the sickly smell inside Catelyn Stark's bedchamber, Sansa broke off a piece of the lemon cake sitting on the table beside her. It was freshly baked, the first batch of many in preparation for tomorrow's feast. She placed it on her tongue and moaned. The tart sweetness of the cake complemented the bitterness of her blood. Aside from the Hound, it was more pleasant of a taste than any she had known before.

The king's mother finally stirred awake shortly before noon, grimacing as she gained consciousness. Her auburn hair was a matted and tangled mess, and her skin was ghastly, not more than a shade darker than milk of the poppy.

A slow, lingering death, all thanks to the king.

As expected, the moment she inhaled through her mouth, she began to cough. 

Sansa exhaled wearily and placed the cloak she was stitching for the Hound on the floor. “Good morrow, Mother," she said innocently, not knowing what she might remember from the night before, if anything.

Catelyn's sunken eyes opened halfway. She once had beautiful eyes, bluer than her own, but now they were only glassy and red. Now Catelyn Stark was all but dead. “San…” she coughed. “Happy name…” Another cough, then drops of blood on the back of her hand. “Happy name day, my…” 

_You don't know,_ she realized with relief.

Sansa picked up the cup of water beside the bed and placed it to those dry lips. “Drink, Mother. My name day is not until tomorrow."

She winced as she swallowed, then waved the cup away with one weak hand. “Where is Robb?” Catelyn Stark croaked. "I need...to speak to him."

Sansa's heart stopped in her chest.

_Or perhaps you do know._

“He is leading the hunt today in the wolfswood, remember?" Sansa placed the cup down with all the gentleness in the world. "He’ll be back at dusk, along with the others.”

_The others, minus Lucas Blackwood._

"Did you meet..." Catelyn began, her voice raspier than Sandor Clegane's, "Lord Lucas?"

Sansa bristled at that but feigned a smile, the smile of a maiden, the smile of a Stark, despite being neither of those things any longer. “I did. The king...Robb told me that you agreed that I should return with the Blackwoods to Raventree Hall."

The dying woman nodded feebly and reached for her hand. Her nails were thin and jagged as they brushed her skin. “A good man," she managed hoarsely.

“He is,” Sansa agreed, speaking of another.

Catelyn Stark turned away, coughed, and said, so plainly, "Wed him."

 _You're as shameless as the king,_ thought Sansa, sitting straighter in the chair beside the bed, but what she said was, "I will, Mother. I'll wed him and have his children. I'll be a good wife and honor him, because I love him." Sansa glanced down at the floor, reminiscing. “And he loves me. He truly loves me."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

“I love you,” she had whimpered, as Sandor Clegane grunted over her in that same spot mere hours ago.

Breathing heavily with his eyes fixed on her face, his only response was a kiss, deep and wet and sharp. It was not what Sansa wanted, not then. She pushed against his broad shoulders with all her strength and broke the kiss.

“Why won’t you say it?” Sansa demanded with a frown.

The Hound stopped mid thrust, his long jet hair dangling in her face. “I do say it," he panted. "Every time I cut a throat or break a spine, I say it.”

“But I want to hear it. I want to hear you say the words." He regarded her for quite some time, in a state of motionless silence. A lump grew in her throat. "You don't love me, do you?"

"Don't be bloody stupid," he rasped.

"Then tell me!" she hissed right back.

Sandor thrust into her hard and spanked her thigh, her sweet punishment. 

“It'll come at a price, little bird. A hefty price."

“A _price_?” That did not make any sense. Sansa had already given him her blessing to kill the king. Wasn't that enough? She looked up at him, lips pouting, eyes welling with tears. “Why a price?”

He pressed his forehead to hers, their noses bumping and well-earned sweat mingling. “Because once I say that," Sandor whispered, "there's no turning back for you."

 _Was there ever?_ she wondered, but did not dare ask aloud.

“I’ll pay the price," Sansa insisted, her voice breaking as she brushed his scars with her fingertips. "Any price. Please, Sandor, I need to know if you love me. I need to hear you say it, even if only once.” 

His eyes flashed. “What else would drive a man to do _this_?"

In a single smooth motion, Sandor hooked her legs over his shoulders and bent her in half. Faces touching, he battered her pitilessly with his cock. Sansa grabbed onto his forearms, his flexed muscles solid as stone, and succumbed to the intimate violence. She couldn't catch her breath, nor could she hear herself think over the sound of his thighs smacking against her ass. Just when she felt herself beginning to climax or pass out (or both), he stopped.

"You need to _hear_?" the Hound huffed, his sweat dripping into her gaping mouth as she fought for air. _"Fine_. Hear that I've wanted you since you were three-and-ten. Did you _hear_ that, girl? After your precious father tucked you into bed at night, I'd come into your bedchamber and watch you sleep when you were three-and-bloody-ten!" With a grunt, he propped himself on his elbows and held her face between his hands, his cock still fully sheathed inside her. " _Look at me_. Don't close your eyes now. You wanted this. It started with me laying next to you in bed and touching your hair, but it wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough. Every time I did one thing, I needed to do another. I'd smell you, press my cock against you, lift your nightgown and pull down your smallclothes and fuck myself to the sight of you curled up on your bed." Sandor paused, chuckling wryly. "And you'd just chirp and smile at me the next day when I'd deliver you to your precious king.

"You need to know if I love you?" Clegane scoffed. "Why else would I risk my bloody head taking you from the Red Keep? Do you remember that first night, little bird? That first night we were alone together in the Crownlands? It rained for hours and you were cold, so bloody cold. I slept next to you to keep you warm and touched you while you slept. That's right. I touched you all over. And you _let_ me. You let me in, little bird. Curling up next to me, talking to me in your sleep, puckering your lips when I'd kiss you, moaning when I'd play with your cunt." Sandor reached down and found her aching bud, massaging it with two fingers.

 _Familiar,_ Sansa thought, grinding against him. _Because it was real all along._

"Good, little bird, just like that," the Hound praised. "You didn't think you taught yourself how to play with your cunt, did you? That was me, girl. I showed you. I showed you everything. The one you dream about is me. It’s always been _me_."

For a moment, as she looked up at him, she could see the Stranger, his long hair the cowl, his gritted teeth the bare bone. Sansa could not control her breath. "Then how was I...a maiden...when we..."

"My one rule," he said solemnly, removing his hand from her sex. "My only limit."

Sansa gazed into his sad eyes, falling deeper. _He would not rape me. Reckless, impulsive, and harsh, but not a rapist._ That explained the whore, even if it angered Sansa still. It was so sweet, so chivalrous, knowing that he waited for her. He stopped himself from doing what he wanted to do most, _for her_.

"Knowing you'd be wed," Sandor went on, "knowing I'd never be able to kiss you again and that another man would...it awoke something within me, Sansa...a darkness." He shook his head, and then she realized he was crying. "And I can't stop it. I'll kill everyone for you."

_Theon's words._

Sansa cupped his cheek with her bloody hand, numb to the pain. "After Robb, you won't need to kill anyone ever again."

"The _king_ ," he corrected her.

"The king, yes. I want you to kill the king."

Sandor looked at her, his cock still stiff and buried inside her. "The thing about darkness, little bird, is that it's a weapon." Sandor traced her lips with fingers wet with her moon blood. “Few know how to wield it, but I do. I wield it better than I do this." He reached over and grabbed the dagger from the floor, pressing the point underneath her chin. Her sex choked him in response, eliciting a grunt. "I was made to kill. You were made to love. I'll kill for your love. The world would see me dead before it would see you love me in return.” He removed the dagger and dropped it on the floor. “What other choice did I have, little bird?"

“None,” she answered, missing the threat of the dagger. "You needed to kill them." 

“Very good, girl. They needed to die.”

“They needed to die.”

“And there are more who still need to.”

“And there are more who still need to,” Sansa echoed, unable to look away from the darkness. “I'll help you, Sandor.”

The kiss that followed hurt, faces pressing together and teeth biting lips. Sansa closed her eyes and lost herself, what little of her remained, living for him, dying for him, if needed.

He resumed his thrusts, her tender sex squelching inside the quiet bedchamber.

"We’re not evil," Sandor Clegane told her. "It’s the world that’s evil.

"It's the world that's evil," she repeated like a prayer. 

“I _love_ you," Sandor confessed at last, biting her neck as he fucked her hard and bloody. "Everything I do is because I love you. And the king will die because I love you.” 

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

"Sansa," Catelyn Stark coughed. "Find Maester Luwin..."

She lifted her eyes from the floor, then glanced at the barred door. She wondered if the Stranger could still find a way in.

Sansa looked at the dying woman on the bed, the woman the King in the North was selfishly keeping alive. "Are you in pain, Mother?"

She nodded with her eyes closed, unable to speak.

With a shaky sigh, Sansa stood up from the chair. 

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

“Will you do it during the hunt?" Sansa had asked him, as she rested her head on his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart.

Groggily, Sandor said, "No, little bird. The day after. The king will die on your name day." 

Sansa did not understand why it needed to wait, but she kissed him nevertheless, trusting him fully. He was the only one she could trust, the only one who wanted the best for her. When sheets rustled beside them, Sansa pulled away from his tongue and turned to the bed.

"What about her?" Sansa whispered softly.

The answer was in the Hound’s eyes, a foreign flicker of pity. "Your mother's not a threat to us. She's as good as dead, girl. I heard the king speak with the maester. She’ll die in her sleep, on her own time, eventually."

 _It would be more merciful to kill her now,_ thought Sansa, but quickly decided not to voice that intrusive thought.

“And Arya?”

His face darkened. There was no pity in his eyes then. “You know what needs to happen to her.”

Sansa _did_ know, but if Bran could be sent away… “Arya knows about us, but she hasn’t said anything. Maybe she-”

“She’s playing a bloody game!" he snarled, startling her. Sandor ran his hand up and down her back, a sincere apology. "She's clever for a child, I'll give her that. But she’s taking her time for a reason. I’ll take care of that stupid little bitch once the king’s dead."

For a moment, Sansa felt an icy draft through her heart. _Arya never was my sister,_ she reminded herself. _Besides, if he doesn't kill her, Arya will kill him, somehow..._

The thought of Sandor Clegane dying made her shiver. Sansa placed a dozen kisses on his chest, his coarse dark hair tickling her nose, then thought of something curious. "Needle...how did you take it if you were with Ro- the king?"

He snorted. "Do you think a bloody child with a sword frightens me? I didn't take it."

"Then who...." It occurred to Sansa then, open eyes opening again like in her dream. She wondered how she could have been so blind, blinder than the king. Sansa looked at the man underneath her in horror. "Oh my gods...you’ve been having Rickon help you.” When she made to slap him, he caught her wrist and pinned it to his chest. “He's only a boy!"

Sandor clamped his other hand over her mouth. "I never asked him to do it! Rickon…” His voice became softer than the wind seeping in through the shutters. "He's like me."

Sansa’s eyes widened. Once he dropped his hand, she said, "What do you mean?"

"The boy is angry," Sandor sighed. "He hates a lot. Hated how your sister pulled out her sword, so he took it and buried it somewhere in the godswood. It's why his wolf is the way that he is, listening to me like I'm his master and defending me against his siblings. Rickon hates, little bird. And guess who hates the most."

Sansa knew. She knew all along. "Robb."

"The _king_ ," Sandor corrected her. "And guess who he loves."

"You."

" _Us_. Together."

The two words lifted her heart. "He does?"

"Yes, little bird. He does." Sandor tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "That boy's like a son to me. I would kill for him, just like I kill for you. Anyone comes near him, I'll slit their throat."

Sansa stared at him, enamored. "We could take care of Rickon, couldn't we?"

"We will."

The conviction in his voice stole her breath. Sansa could taste the future, the sweetest future. She could see it now and wanted it more than anything. A life free of lords and betrothals. It could just be them and Rickon, and...

Sansa kept her eyes on his, as she trailed her fingers down his chest, lower and lower until they wrapped around the thick, slack manhood resting on his thigh. Three strokes and he was hard.

"And maybe, someday," she began, coyly, "we can-"

"-have children of our own." Moving so quickly that she gasped, Sandor sat up, leaned against the bedpost, and sat her on his cock. They moaned together, so brazen Sansa was sure someone might hear. Sandor looked at her with eyes catching light from the lone dying candle flame and told her, "We will do that too, once we are wed." 

Sansa broke into a sob. "It will be only us," she promised, moaning again once his hands guided her hips in circles. They found a steady rhythm, making love. "You, me, Rickon, and our children. Only us."

"Only us."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Sansa picked up a pillow from the bed and squeezed it with both hands until her knuckles turned white.

"I love you, Mother," Sansa sniffled. "I'll wed him, I promise."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

“I'll never lie to you again,” Sansa had told him, fully controlling the pace of her swiveling hips. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I belong to you. I’ll never touch your dagger again, Sandor. Not ever.”

Sandor unlatched from her breast with a wet popping sound, her nipple red, swollen, and glistening from his suck.

“You _will,_ ” he grunted, picking up the dagger from the floor and placing it in her palm.

It belonged there, in the gentle embrace of her hand, her blood coating the hilt to mark its territory.

“Is it mine?” she asked hopefully.

“It’s the price.” Sandor guided her hand to his throat, then swiped the dagger's edge across his neck, mimicking the fatal act without adding the pressure needed to cut his skin. It horrified her all the same, and thrilled her all the more. Riding him, Sansa had closed her eyes and succumbed to her climax upon hearing that last whisper.

“No turning back, my little bird. You’re going to kill a king.”

/~/~/~/~/~/~/

A teardrop fell on the pillow, and then two more on the hands that pressed down onto it firmly.

“We’re not evil,” Sansa wept, once Catelyn Stark was relieved of her suffering. “It’s the world that’s evil.”


End file.
